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BOB,  SON  OF  BATTLE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/bobsonofbattleolli 


Snuffling  at  the  door.  Bob  scratched  and  pleaded  to  get   in.     Only 
two  miserable  wooden  inches  separated  him  from  Red  Wull. 


BOB 

SON    OF    BATTLE 


ILLUSTRATED    BY  MARGUERITE    KIRMSE 


GARDEN    CITY    PUBLISHING    CO.,    INC. 
GARDEN    CITY,     NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  I898,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 

GARDEN    CITY,    N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

The  Coming  of  the  Tailless  Tyke 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Gray  Dog, i 

II.  A  Son  of  Hagar, .  9 

III.  Red  Wull, 20 

IV.  First  Blood, 29 

PART  II 

The  Little  Man 

V.  A  Man's  Son, 41 

VI.  A  Licking  or  a  Lie, 51 

VII.  The  White  Winter, 60 

VIII.  M'Adam  and  His  Coat, 71 

PART  III 

The  Shepherds'  Trophy 

IX.     Rivals, 83 

X.     Red  Wull  Wins, 93 

XL    Oor  Bob, 103 

XII.     How  Red  Wull  Held  the  Bridge,       .     .     .  109 

XIII.    The  Face  in  the  Frame, 121 

v 


VI 


CHAPTER 

XIV. 
XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 


CONTENTS 

PART  IV 

The  Black  Killer 

PAGE 

A  Mad  Man, 131 

Death  on  the  Marshes,        139 

The  Black  Killer, 149 

A  Mad  Dog, 158 

How  the  Killer  was  Singed,     ....  165 

Lad  and  Lass, 176 

The  Snapping  of  the  String,     ....  185 

Horror  of  Darkness, 197 


PART  V 
Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir 

XXII.    A  Man  and  a  Maid,    .......  209 

XXIII.  Th'  Owd  Un, 222 

XXIV.  A  Shot  in  the  Night, 230 

XXV.    The  Shepherds'  Trophy, 240 


PART  VI 

The  Black  Killer 

XXVI.     Red-handed, 257 

XXVII.    For  the  Defence,        267 

XXVIII.    The  Devil's  Bowl, 277 

XXIX.    The  Devil's  Bowl, 285 

XXX.    The  Tailless  Tyke  at  Bay,        ....  292 

Postscript 304 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Bob  scratched  and  pleaded  to  get  in      ...        Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

He  played  and  laughed  and  teased  old  Whitecap  ...         6 

A  gray  figure  seemed  to  spring  from  out  the  blue.     .     .       46 

Sheep  were  buried  and  lost  in  their  hundreds  ....       62 

The  dog  took  his  post  fair  and  square  in  the  centre  of  the 

narrow  way 118 


PART  I 

THE  COMING  OF  THE 
TAILLESS  TYKE 


^****^^T 


CHAPTER  I 


THE    GRAY  DOG 

THE  sun  stared  brazenly  down  on  a  gray  farmhouse 
lying  long  and  low  in  the  shadow  of  the  Muir  Pike; 
on  the  ruins  of  peel-tower  and  barmkyn,  relics  of  the  time 
of  raids,  it  looked;  on  ranges  of  whitewashed  outbuildings; 
on  a  goodly  array  of  dark-thatched  ricks. 

In  the  stack-yard,  behind  the  lengthy  range  of  stables, 
two  men  were  thatching.  One  lay  sprawling  on  the  crest 
of  the  rick,  the  other  stood  perched  on  a  ladder  at  a  lower 
level. 

The  latter,  small,  old,  with  shrewd  nutbrown  counte- 
nance, was  Tammas  Thornton,  who  had  served  the  Moores 
of  Kenmuir  for  more  than  half  a  century.  The  other,  on 
top  of  the  stack,  wrapped  apparently  in  gloomy  medi- 
tation, was  Sam'l  Todd.  A  solid  Dalesman,  he,  with 
huge  hands  and  hairy  arms;  about  his  face  an  uncomely 
aureole  of  stiff,  red  hair;  and  on  his  features,  deep- 
seated,  an  expression  of  resolute  melancholy. 


2  THE  GRAY  DOG 

"Ay,  the  Gray  Dogs,  bless  'em!"  the  old  man  was 
saying.  "Yo'  canna  beat  'em  not  nohow.  Known  'em 
ony  time  this  sixty  year,  I  have,  and  niver  knew  a  bad  un 
yet.  Not  as  I  say,  mind  ye,  as  any  of  'em  cooms  up  to 
Rex  son  o'  Rally.  Ah,  he  was  a  one,  was  Rex!  We's 
never  won  Cup  since  his  day." 

"Nor  niver  shall  agin,  you'  may  depend,"  said  the 
other  gloomily. 

Tammas  clucked  irritably. 

"G'long,  Sam'l  Todd!"  he  cried.  "Yo'  niver  happy 
onless  yo'  making'  yo'self  miser'ble.  I  niver  see  sich  a 
chap.  Niver  win  agin?  Why,  oor  young  Bob  he'll 
mak'  a  right  un,  I  tell  yo',  and  I  should  know.  Not  as 
what  he'll  touch  Rex  son  o'  Rally,  mark  ye!  I'm  niver 
saying'  so,  Sam'l  Todd.  Ah,  he  was  a  one,  was  Rex!  I 
could  tell  yo'  a  tale  or  two  o'  Rex.     I  mind  me  hoo " 

The  big  man  interposed  hurriedly. 

"I've  heard  it  afore,  Tammas,  I  welly  'ave,"  he  said. 

Tammas  paused  and  looked  angrily  up. 

"Yo've  heard  it  afore,  have  yo',  Sam'l  Todd?"  he 
asked  sharply.     "And  what  have  yo'  heard  afore?" 

"Yo'  stories,  owd  lad — yo'  stories  o'  Rex  son  o'  Rally." 

"Which  on' em?" 

"All  on  'em,  Tammas,  all  on  'em — mony  a  time.  I'm 
fair  sick  on  'em,  Tammas,  I  welly  am,"  he  pleaded. 

The  old  man  gasped.  He  brought  down  his  mallet  with 
a  vicious  smack. 

"I'll  niver  tell  yo'  a  tale  again,  Sam'l  Todd,  not  if  yo' 
was  to  go  on  yo'  bended  knees  for't.  Nay;  it  bain't  no 
manner  o'  use  talkin'.     Niver  agin,  says  I." 

"I  niver  askt  yo',"  declared  honest  Sam'l. 

"Nor  it  wouldna  ha'  bin  no  manner  o'  use  if  yo'  had  " 


THE  GRAY  DOG  3 

said  the  other  viciously.     "I'll  niver  tell  yo'  a  tale  agin  if 
I  was  to  live  to  be  a  hundred." 

"Yo'll  not  live  to  be  a  hundred,  Tammas  Thornton, 
nor  near  it,"  said  Sam'l  brutally. 

"I'll  live  as  long  as  some,  I  warrant,"  the  old  man 
replied  with  spirit.  "I'll  live  to  see  Cup  back  i'  Kenmuir, 
as  I  said  afore." 

"If  yo'  do,"  the  other  declared  with  emphasis,  "Sam'l 
Todd  niver  spake  a  true  word.  Nay,  nay,  lad;  yo're  owd, 
yo're  wambly,  your  time's  near  run  or  I'm  the  more 
mistook." 

"For    mussy's    sake   hold    yo'    tongue,    Sam'l   Todd! 

It's  clack-clack  all  day "     The  old   man  broke  off 

suddenly,  and  buckled  to  his  work  with  suspicious  vigour 
"Mak'  a  show  yo'  bin  workin',  lad,"  he  whispered,. 
"Here's  Master  and  oor  Bob." 

As  he  spoke,  a  tall  gaitered  man  with  weather-beaten 
face,  strong,  lean,  austere,  and  the  blue-gray  eyes  of  the 
hill-country,  came  striding  into  the  yard.  And  trotting 
soberly  at  his  heels,  with  the  gravest,  saddest  eyes  you  ever 
saw,  a  sheep-dog  puppy. 

A  rare  dark  gray  he  was,  his  long  coat,  dashed  here  and 
there  with  lighter  touches,  like  a  stormy  sea  moonlit. 
Upon  his  chest  an  escutcheon  of  purest  white,  and  the 
dome  of  his  head  showered,  as  it  were,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
snow.  Perfectly  compact,  utterly  lithe,  inimitably  grace- 
ful with  his  airy-fairy  action;  a  gentleman  every  inch,  you 
could  not  help  but  stare  at  him — Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir. 

At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  the  two  stopped.  And  the 
young  dog,  placing  his  forepaws  on  a  lower  rung,  looked 
up,  slowly  waving  his  silvery  brush. 

"A  proper  Gray  Dog!"  mused  Tammas,  gazing  down 


4  THE  GRAY  DOG 

into  the  dark  face  beneath  him.  "Small,  yet  big;  light 
to  get  about  on  backs  o'  his  sheep,  yet  not  too  light.  Wi'  a 
coat  hard  a-top  to  keep  oot  Daleland  weather,  soft  as 
sealskin  beneath.  And  wi'  them  sorrerful  eyes  on  him  as 
niver  goes  but  wi'  a  good  un.  Amaist  he  minds  me  o' 
Rex  son  o'  Rally." 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  groaned  Sam'l.  But  the  old 
man  heard  him  not. 

"Did  'Enry  Farewether  tell  yo'  hoo  he  acted  this 
mornin',  Master?"  he  inquired,  addressing  the  man  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder. 

"Nay,"  said  the  other,  his  stern  eyes  lighting. 
"Why,  'twas  this  way,  it  seems,"  Tammas  continued. 
"Young  bull  gets  'isself  loose  somegate  and  marches  oot 
into  yard,  o'erturns  milkpail,  and  prods  owd  pigs  i'  ribs. 
And  as  he  stands  lookin'  about  un,  thinking'  what  he  shall 
be  up  to  next,  oor  Bob  sees  un.  'An'  what  yo'  doin'  here, 
Mr.  Bull?'  he  seems  to  say,  cockin'  his  ears  and  trottin1 
up  gaylike.  Wi'  that  bull  bloats  fit  to  bust  'isself,  lashes 
wi's  tail,  waggles  his  head,  and  gets  agate  o'  chargin'  'im. 
But  Bob  leaps  oot  o'  way,  quick  as  lightnin'  yet  cool  as 
butter,  and  when  he's  done  his  foolin  drives  un  back 
agin." 

"Who  seed  all  this?"  interposed  Sam'l,  sceptically. 
"  'Enry  Farewether  from  the  loft.  So  there,  Fat'ead!" 
Tammas  replied,  and  continued  his  tale.  "So  they  goes 
on;  bull  chargin'  and  Bob  drivin'  un  back  and  back, 
hoppin'  in  and  oot  agin,  quiet  as  a  cowcumber,  yet 
determined.  At  last  Mr.  Bull  sees  it's  no  manner  o'  use 
that  gate,  so  he  turns,  rares  up,  and  tries  to  jump  wall. 
Nary  a  bit.  Young  dog  jumps  in  on  un  and  nips  him  by 
tail.     Wi'  that,  bull  tumbles  down  in  a  hurry,  turns  wi*  a 


THE  GRAY  DOG  5 

kind  o*  groan,  and  marches  back  into  stall,  Bob  after  un. 
And  then,  dang  me!" — the  old  man  beat  the  ladder  as  he 
loosed  off  this  last  titbit, — "if  he  doesna  sit'  isself  i'  door 
like  a  sentrynel  till  'Enry  Farewether  coom  up.  Hoo's 
that  for  a  tyke  not  yet  a  year?" 

Even  Sam'l  Todd  was  moved  by  the  tale. 

"Well  done,  oor  Bob !"  he  cried. 

"Good,  lad!"  said  the  Master,  laying  a  hand  on  the 
dark  head  at  his  knee. 

"Yo'  may  well  say  that,"  cried  Tammas  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy.  "A  proper  Gray  Dog,  I  tell  yo\  Wi'  the  brains 
of  a  man  and  the  way  of  a  woman.  Ah,  yo'  canna  beat  'em 
nohow,  the  Gray  Dogs  o'  Kenmuir!" 

The  patter  of  cheery  feet  rang  out  on  the  plank-bridge 
over  the  stream  below  them.     Tammas  glanced  round. 

"Here's  David,"  he  said.     "Late  this  mornin'  he  be." 

A  fair-haired  boy  came  spurring  up  the  slope,  his  face 
all  aglow  with  the  speed  of  his  running.  Straightway  the 
young  dog  dashed  off  to  meet  him  with  a  fiery  speed  his 
sober  gait  belied.  The  two  raced  back  together  into  the 
yard. 

"Poor  lad!"  said  Sam'l  gloomily,  regarding  the  new 
comer. 

"Poor  heart!"  muttered  Tammas.  While  the  Master's 
face  softened  visibly.  Yet  there  looked  little  to  pity  in 
this  jolly,  rocking  lad  with  the  tousle  of  light  hair  and 
fresh,  rosy  countenance. 

"G 'mornin',  Mister  Moore!  Morn'n,  Tammas! 
Morn'n,  Sam'l!"  he  panted  as  he  passed;  and  ran  on 
through  the  hay-carpeted  yard,  round  the  corner  of  the 
stable,  and  into  the  house. 

In  the  kitchen,  a  long  room  with  red-tiled  floor  and 


6  THE  GRAY  DOG 

latticed  windows,  a  woman,  white-aproned  and  frail-faced, 
was  bustling  about  her  morning  business.  To  her  skirts 
clung  a  sturdy,  bare-legged  boy;  while  at  the  oak  table  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  a  girl  with  brown  eyes  and  straggling 
hair  was  seated  before  a  basin  of  bread  and  milk. 

"So  yo've  coom  at  last,  David!"  the  woman  cried,  as 
the  boy  entered;  and,  bending,  greeted  him  with  a  tender, 
motherly  salutation,  which  he  returned  as  affectionately. 
"I  welly  thowt  yo'd  forgot  us  this  mornin'.  Noo  sit  you' 
doon  beside  oor  Maggie."  And  soon  he,  too,  was  engaged 
in  a  task  twin  to  the  girl's. 

The  two  children  munched  away  in  silence,  the  little 
bare-legged  boy  watching  them  the  while,  critically. 
Irritated  by  this  prolonged  stare,  David  at  length  turned 
on  him. 

"Weel,  little  Andrew,"  he  said,  speaking  in  that 
paternal  fashion  in  which  one  small  boy  loves  to  address 
another.  "Weel,  ma  little  lad,  yo'm  cooming'  along 
gradely."  He  leant  back  in  his  chair  the  better  to 
criticise  his  subject.  But  Andrew,  like  all  the  Moores, 
slow  of  speech,  preserved  a  stolid  silence,  sucking  a  chubby 
thumb,  and  regarding  his  patron  a  thought  cynically. 

David  resented  the  expression  on  the  boy's  countenance, 
and  half  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Yo'  put  another  face  on  yo',  Andrew  Moore,"  he  cried 
threateningly,  "or  I'll  put  it  for  yo'." 

Maggie,  however,  interposed  opportunely. 

"Did  yo'  fether  beat  yo'  last  night?"  she  inquired  in  a 
low  voice;  and  there  was  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  the  soft 
brown  eyes. 

"Nay,"  the  boy  answered;  "he  was  a-goin'  to,  but  he 
never  did.     Drunk,"  he  added  in  explanation. 


Bob  played  and  laughed,  and  teased  old  Whitecap,  till  that  gray 
gander  all  but  expired  of  apoplexy  and  impotence. 


THE  GRAY  DOG  7 

"What  was  he  goin'  to  beat  yo'  for,  David?"  asked 
Mrs.  Moore. 

"What  for?  Why,  for  the  fun  o't — to  see  me  squiggle," 
the  boy  replied,  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"Yo'  shouldna  speak  so  o'  your  dad,  David,"  reproved 
the  other  as  severely  as  was  in  her  nature. 

"Dad!  a  fine  dad!  I'd  dad  him  an  I'd  the  chance," 
the  boy  muttered  beneath  his  breath.  Then,  to  turn  the 
conversation : 

"Us  should  be  startin',  Maggie,"  he  said,  and  going 
to  the  door.  "Bob!  Owd  Bob,  lad!  Ar't  coomin' 
along?"  he  called. 

The  gray  dog  came  springing  up  like  an  antelope,  and 
the  three  started  ofT  for  school  together. 

Mrs.  Moore  stood  in  the  doorway,  holding  Andrew  by 
the  hand,  and  watched  the  departing  trio. 

"  'Tis  a  pretty  pair,  Master,  surely,"  she  said  softly  to 
her  husband,  who  came  up  at  the  moment. 

"Ay,  he'll  be  a  fine  lad  if  his  fether'll  let  him,"  the  tall 
man  answered. 

"  'Tis  a  shame  Mr.  M'Adam  should  lead  him  such  a 
life,"  the  woman  continued  indignantly.  She  laid  a  hand 
on  her  husband's  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him  coaxingly. 

"Could  yo'  not  say  summat  to  un,  Master,  think  'ee? 
Happen  he'd  'tend  to  you,"  she  pleaded.  For  Mrs. 
Moore  imagined  that  there  could  be  no  one  but  would 
gladly  heed  what  James  Moore,  Master  of  Kenmuir, 
might  say  to  him.  "He's  not  a  bad  un  at  bottom,  I  do 
believe,"  she  continued.  "He  never  took  on  so  till  his 
missus  died.     Eh,  but  he  was  main  fond  o'  her." 

Her  husband  shook  his  head. 

"Nay,  mother,"  he  said.     "  'Twould  nob'  but  mak*  it 


8  THE  GRAY  DOG 

worse  for  t'  lad.  M'Adam'd  listen  to  no  one,  let  alone 
me."  And,  indeed,  he  was  right;  for  the  tenant  of  the 
Grange  made  no  secret  of  his  animosity  for  his  straight- 
going,  straight-speaking  neighbour. 


Owd  Bob,  in  the  meantime,  had  escorted  the  children 
to  the  larch-copse  bordering  on  the  lane  which  leads  to  the 
village.  Now  he  crept  stealthily  back  to  the  yard,  and 
established  himself  behind  the  water-butt. 

How  he  played  and  how  he  laughed;  how  he  teased  old 
Whitecap  till  that  gray  gander  all  but  expired  of  apoplexy 
and  impotence;  how  he  ran  the  roan  bull-calf,  and  aroused 
the  bitter  wrath  of  a  portly  sow,  mother  of  many,  is  of  no 
account. 

At  last,  in  the  midst  of  his  merry  mischief-making,  a 
stern  voice  arrested  him. 

"Bob,  lad,  I  see  'tis  time  we  larned  you  yo'  letters." 

So  the  business  of  life  began  for  that  dog  of  whom  the 
simple  farmer-folk  of  the  Daleland  still  love  to  talk — Bob, 
son  of  Battle,  last  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir. 


CHAPTER  II 


A   SON   OF   HAGAR 


IT  IS  a  lonely  country,  that  about  the  Wastrel-dale. 
Parson  Leggy  Hornbut  will  tell  you  that  his  is  the 
smallest  church  in  the  biggest  parish  north  of  the  Derwent, 
and  that  his  cure  numbers  more  square  miles  than  parish- 
ioners. Of  fells  and  ghylls  it  consists,  of  becks  and 
lakes;  with  here  a  scattered  hamlet  and  there  a  solitary 
hill  sheep-farm.  It  is  a  country  in  which  sheep  are 
paramount;  and  every  other  Dalesman  is  engaged  in  that 
profession  which  is  as  old  as  Abel.  And  the  talk  of  the 
men  of  the  land  is  of  wethers  and  gimmers,  of  tup-hoggs, 
ewe  tegs  in  wool,  and  other  things  which  are  but  fearsome 
names  to  you  and  me;  and  always  of  the  doings  or  mis- 
doings, the  intelligence  or  stupidity,  of  their  adjutants,  the 
sheep-dogs. 

Of  all  the  Daleland,  the  country  from  the  Black  Water 
to  Grammoch  Pike  is  the  wildest.  Above  the  tiny  stone- 
built  village  of  Wastrel-dale  the  Muir  Pike  nods  its  massive 

9 


io  A  SON  OF  HAGAR 

head.  Westward,  the  desolate  Mere  Marches,  from 
which  the  Sylvesters'  great  estate  derives  its  name,  reach 
away  in  mile  on  mile  of  sheep-infested,  windswept  moor- 
land. On  the  far  side  of  the  Marches  is  that  twin  dale 
where  flows  the  gentle  Silver  Lea.  And  it  is  there  in  the 
paddocks  at  the  back  of  the  Dalesman's  Daughter,  that, 
in  the  late  summer  months,  the  famous  sheep-dog  Trials 
of  the  North  are  held.  There  that  the  battle  for  the 
Dale  Cup,  the  world-known  Shepherds'  Trophy,  is  fought 
out. 

Past  the  little  inn  leads  the  turnpike  road  to  the  market- 
centre  of  the  district — Grammoch-town.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  paddocks  at  the  back  of  the  inn  winds  the  Silver 
Lea.  Just  there  a  plank  bridge  crosses  the  stream,  and, 
beyond,  the  Murk  Muir  Pass  crawls  up  the  sheer  side  of 
the  Scaur  on  to  the  Mere  Marches. 

At  the  head  of  the  Pass,  before  it  debouches  on  to  those 
lonely  sheep-walks  which  divide  the  two  dales,  is  that 
hollow,  shuddering  with  gloomy  possibilities,  aptly  called 
the  Devil's  Bowl.  In  its  centre  the  Lone  Tarn,  weirdly 
suggestive  pool,  lifts  its  still  face  to  the  sky.  It  was 
beside  that  black,  frozen  water,  across  whose  cold  surface 
the  storm  was  swirling  in  white  snow-wraiths,  that,  many, 
many  years  ago  (not  in  this  century)  old  Andrew  Moore 
came  upon  the  mother  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir. 

In  the  North,  every  one  who  has  heard  of  the  Muir  Pike 
— and  who  has  not? — has  heard  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Ken- 
muir, every  one  who  has  heard  of  the  Shepherd's  Trophy — 
and  who  has  not? — knows  their  fame.  In  that  country 
of  good  dogs  and  jealous  masters  the  pride  of  place  has 
long  been  held  unchallenged.  Whatever  line  may  claim 
to  follow  the  Gray  Pogs  always  lead  the  van.    And  there 


A  SON  OF  HAGAR  u 

is  a  saying  in  the  land :     "  Faithfu'  as  the  Moores  and  their 
tykes." 

On  the  top  dresser  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace  in  the 
kitchen  of  Kenmuir  lies  the  family  Bible.  At  the  end  you 
will  find  a  loose  sheet — the  pedigree  of  the  Gray  Dogs;  at 
the  beginning,  pasted  on  the  inside,  an  almost  similar 
sheet,  long  since  yellow  with  age — the  family  register  of 
the  Moores  of  Kenmuir. 

Running  your  eye  down  the  loose  leaf,  once,  twice,  and 
again  it  will  be  caught  by  a  small  red  cross  beneath  a  name, 
and  under  the  cross  the  one  word  "Cup."  Lastly, 
opposite  the  name  of  Rex  son  of  Rally,  are  two  of  those 
proud,  tell-tale  marks.  The  cup  referred  to  is  the  re- 
nowned Dale  Cup — Champion  Challenge  Dale  Cup,  open 
to  the  world.  Had  Rex  won  it  but  once  again  the  Shep- 
herds' Trophy,  which  many  men  have  lived  to  win,  and 
died  still  striving  after,  would  have  come  to  rest  forever  in 
the  little  gray  house  below  the  Pike. 

It  was  not  to  be,  however.  Comparing  the  two  sheets, 
you  read  beneath  the  dog's  name  a  date  and  a  pathetic 
legend;  and  on  the  other  sheet,  written  in  his  son's  boyish 
hand,  beneath  the  name  of  Andrew  Moore  the  same  date 
and  the  same  legend. 

From  that  day  James  Moore,  then  but  a  boy,  was  master 
of  Kenmuir. 

So  past  Grip  and  Rex  and  Rally,  and  a  hundred  others 
until  at  the  foot  of  the  page  you  come  to  that  last  name — 
Bob,  son  of  Battle. 

From  the  very  first  the  young  dog  took  to  his  work  in  a 
manner  to  amaze  even  James  Moore.     For  a  while  he 


12  A  SON  OF  HAGAR 

watched  his  mother,  Meg,  at  her  business,  and  with  that 
seemed  to  have  mastered  the  essentials  of  sheep  tactics. 

Rarely  had  such  fiery  elan  been  seen  on  the  sides  of  the 
Pike;  and  with  it  the  young  dog  combined  a  strange 
sobriety,  an  admirable  patience,  that  justified,  indeed,  the 
epithet  "Owd."  Silent  he  worked,  and  resolute;  and 
even  in  those  days  had  that  famous  trick  of  coaxing  the 
sheep  to  do  his  wishes; — blending,  in  short,  as  Tammas 
put  it,  the  brains  of  a  man  with  the  way  of  a  woman. 

Parson  Leggy,  who  was  reckoned  the  best  judge  of  a 
sheep  or  sheep-dog  'twixt  Tyne  and  Tweed,  summed  him 
up  in  the  one  word  "Genius."  And  James  Moore  himself, 
cautious  man,  was  more  than  pleased. 

In  the  village,  the  Dalesmen,  who  took  a  personal  pride 
in  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir,  began  to  nod  sage  heads 
when  "oor"  Bob  was  mentioned.  Jim  Mason,  the  post- 
man, whose  word  went  as  far  with  the  villagers  as  Parson 
Leggy's  with  the  gentry,  reckoned  he'd  never  seen  a  young 
un  as  so  took  his  fancy. 

That  winter  it  grew  quite  the  recognized  thing,  when 
they  had  gathered  of  a  night  round  the  fire  in  the  Sylvester 
Arms,  with  Tammas  in  the  centre,  old  Jonas  Maddox  on 
his  right,  Rob  Saunderson  of  the  Holt  on  the  left,  and  the 
others  radiating  away  toward  the  sides,  for  some  one  to 
begin  with : 

"Well,  and  what  o'  oor  Bob,  Mr.  Thornton?" 

To  which  Tammas  would  always  make  reply: 

"Oh,  yo'  ask  Sam'l  there.  He'll  tell  yo'  better'n  me," — 
and  would  forthwith  plunge,  himself,  into  a  yarn. 

And  the  way  in  which,  as  the  story  proceeded,  Tupper  of 
Swinsthwaite  winked  at  Ned  Hoppin  of  Fellsgarth,  and 
Long  Kirby,  the  smith,  poked  Jem  Burton,  the  publican, 


A  SON  OF  HAGAR  13 

in  the  ribs,  and  Sexton  Ross  said,  "Ma  word,  lad!"  spoke 
more  eloquently  than  many  words. 

One  man  only  never  joined  in  the  chorus  of  admiration. 
Sitting  always  alone  in  the  background,  little  M'Adam 
would  listen  with  an  incredulous  grin  on  his  sallow  face. 

"Oh,  ma  certes!  The  devil's  in  the  dog!  It's  no 
cannie  ava!"  he  would  continually  exclaim,  as  Tammas 
told  his  tale. 


In  the  Daleland  you  rarely  see  a  stranger's  face.  Wan- 
dering in  the  wild  country  about  the  twin  dales  at  the  time 
of  this  story,  you  might  have  met  Parson  Leggy,  striding 
along  with  a  couple  of  varmint  terriers  at  his  heels,  and 
young  Cyril  Gilbraith,  whom  he  was  teaching  to  tie  flies 
and  fear  God,  beside  him;  or  Jim  Mason,  postman  by 
profession,  poacher  by  predilection,  honest  man  and 
sportsman  by  nature,  hurrying  along  with  the  mail-bags 
on  his  shoulder,  a  rabbit  in  his  pocket,  and  the  faithful 
Betsy  a  yard  behind.  Besides  these  you  might  have  hit 
upon  a  quiet  shepherd  and  a  wise-faced  dog;  Squire 
Sylvester,  going  his  rounds  upon  a  sturdy  cob;  or,  had  you 
been  lucky,  sweet  Lady  Eleanor  bent  upon  some  errand 
of  mercy  to  one  of  the  many  tenants. 

It  was  while  the  Squire's  lady  was  driving  through  the 
village  on  a  visit*  to  Tammas's  slobbering  grandson — it 
was  shortly  after  Billy  Thornton's  advent  into  the  world 
— that  little  M'Adam,  standing  in  the  door  of  the  Sylvester 

*Note — It  was  this  visit  which  figured  in  the  Grammoch-town  Argus  (local  and 
radical)  under  the  heading  of  "Alleged  Wholesale  Corruption  by  Tory  Agents." 
And  that  is  why,  on  the  following  market  day,  Herbert  Trotter,  journalist, 
erstwhile  gentleman,  and  Secretary  of  the  Dale  Trials,  found  himself  trying  to 
swim  in  the  public  horse-trough. 


i4  A  SON  OF  HAGAR 

Arms,  with  a  twig  in  his  mouth  and  a  sneer  fading  from  his 
lips,  made  his  ever-memorable  remark: 

"Sail!"  he  said,  speaking  in  low,  earnest  voice;  "  'tis  a 
muckle  wumman." 

"What?  What  be  sayin',  mon?"  cried  old  Jonas, 
startled  out  of  his  usual  apathy. 

M'Adam  turned  sharply  on  the  old  man. 

"I  said  the  wumman  wears  a  muckle  hat!"  he  snapped. 

Blotted  out  as  it  was,  the  observation  still  remains — a 
tribute  of  honest  admiration.  Doubtless  the  Recording 
Angel  did  not  pass  it  by.  That  one  statement  anent  the 
gentle  lady  of  the  manor  is  the  only  personal  remark  ever 
credited  to  little  M'Adam  not  born  of  malice  and  all 
uncharitableness.     And  that  is  why  it  is  ever  memorable. 

The  little  Scotsman  with  the  sardonic  face  had  been  the 
tenant  of  the  Grange  these  many  years;  yet  he  had  never 
grown  acclimatized  to  the  land  of  the  Southron.  With 
his  shrivelled  body  and  weakly  legs  he  looked  among  the 
sturdy,  straight-limbed  sons  of  the  hill-country  like  some 
brown,  wrinkled  leaf  holding  its  place  midst  a  galaxy  of 
green.  And  as  he  differed  from  them  physically,  so  he 
did  morally. 

He  neither  understood  them  nor  attempted  to.  The 
North-country  character  was  an  unsolved  mystery  to 
him,  and  that  after  ten  years'  study.  "One-half  o'  what 
ye  say  they  doot,  and  they  let  ye  see  it;  t'ither  half  they 
disbelieve,  and  they  tell  ye  so,"  he  once  said.  And  that 
explained  his  attitude  toward  them,  and  consequently 
theirs  toward  him. 

He  stood  entirely  alone;  a  son  of  Hagar,  mocking. 
His  sharp,  ill  tongue  was  rarely  still,  and  always  bitter. 
There  was  hardly  a  man  in  the  land,  from  Langholm  How 


A  SON  OF  HAGAR  15 

to  the  market-cross  in  Grammoch-town,  but  had  at 
one  time  known  its  sting,  endured  it  in  silence — for 
they  are  slow  of  speech,  these  men  of  the  fells  and  meres — 
and  was  nursing  his  resentment  till  a  day  should  bring 
that  chance  which  always  comes.  And  when  at  the  Syl- 
vester Arms,  on  one  of  those  rare  occasions  when  M'Adam 
was  not  present,  Tammas  summed  up  the  little  man  in 
that  historic  phrase  of  his,  "When  he's  drunk  he's  wi'lent, 
and  when  he  bain't  he's  wicious,"  there  was  an  applause 
to  gratify  the  blase  heart  of  even  Tammas  Thornton. 

Yet  it  had  not  been  till  his  wife's  death  that  the  little 
man  had  allowed  loose  rein  to  his  ill-nature.  With  her 
firmly  gentle  hand  no  longer  on  the  tiller  of  his  life,  it 
burst  into  fresh  being.  And  alone  in  the  world  with 
David,  the  whole  venom  of  his  vicious  temperament  was 
ever  directed  against  the  boy's  head.  It  was  as  though  he 
saw  in  his  fair-haired  son  the  unconscious  cause  of  his 
ever-living  sorrow.  All  the  more  strange  this,  seeing 
that,  during  her  life,  the  boy  had  been  to  poor  Flora 
M'Adam  as  her  heart's  core.  And  the  lad  was  growing 
up  the  very  antithesis  of  his  father.  Big  and  hearty,  with 
never  an  ache  or  ill  in  the  whole  of  his  sturdy  young  body; 
of  frank,  open  countenance;  while  even  his  speech  was 
slow  and  burring  like  any  Dale-bred  boy's.  And  the  fact 
of  it  all,  and  that  the  lad  was  palpably  more  Englishman 
than  Scot — ay,  and  gloried  in  it — exasperated  the  little 
man,  a  patriot  before  everything,  to  blows.  While,  on 
top  of  it,  David  evinced  an  amazing  pertness  fit  to  have 
tried  a  better  man  than  Adam  M'Adam. 

On  the  death  of  his  wife,  kindly  Elizabeth  Moore  had, 
more  than  once,  offered  such  help  to  the  lonely  little  man 
as  a  woman  only  can  give  in  a  house  that  knows  no 


16  A  SON  OF  HAGAR 

mistress.  On  the  last  of  these  occasions,  after  crossing  the 
Stony  Bottom,  which  divides  the  two  farms,  and  toiling  up 
the  hill  to  the  Grange,  she  had  met  M'Adam  in  the  door. 

"Yo'  maun  let  me  put  yo'  bit  things  straight  for  yo', 
mister,"  she  had  said  shyly;  for  she  feared  the  little  man. 

"Thank  ye,  Mrs.  Moore,"  he  had  answered  with  the 
sour  smile  the  Dalesmen  knew  so  well,  "but  ye  maun 
think  I'm  a  waefu'  cripple."  And  there  he  had  stood, 
grinning  sardonically,  opposing  his  small  bulk  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  door. 

Mrs.  Moore  had  turned  down  the  hill,  abashed  and  hurt 
at  the  reception  of  her  offer;  and  her  husband,  proud  to  a 
fault,  had  forbidden  her  to  repeat  it.  Nevertheless  her 
motherly  heart  went  out  in  a  great  tenderness  for  the  little 
orphan  David.  She  knew  well  the  desolateness  of  his  life; 
his  father's  aversion  from  him,  and  its  inevitable  conse- 
quences. 

It  became  an  institution  for  the  boy  to  call  every 
morning  at  Kenmuir,  and  trot  off  to  the  village  school  with 
Maggie  Moore.  And  soon  the  lad  came  to  look  on  Ken- 
muir as  his  true  home,  and  James  and  Elizabeth  Moore  as 
his  real  parents.  His  greatest  happiness  was  to  be  away 
from  the  Grange.  And  the  ferret-eyed  little  man  there 
noted  the  fact,  bitterly  resented  it,  and  vented  his  ill- 
humour  accordingly. 

It  was  this,  as  he  deemed  it,  uncalled-for  trespassing  on 
his  authority  which  was  the  chief  cause  of  his  animosity 
against  James  Moore.  The  Master  of  Kenmuir  it  was  at 
whom  he  was  aiming  when  he  remarked  one  day  at  the 
Arms:  "Masel',  I  aye  prefaire  the  good  man  who  does 
no  go  to  church,  to  the  bad  man  who  does.  But  then,  as 
ye  say,  Mr.  Burton,  I'm  peculiar." 


A  SON  OF  HAGAR  17 

The  little  man's  treatment  of  David,  exaggerated  as  it 
was  by  eager  credulity,  became  at  length  such  a  scandai 
to  the  Dale  that  Parson  Leggy  determined  to  bring  him  to 
task  on  the  matter. 

Now  M'Adam  was  the  parson's  pet  antipathy.  The 
bluflf  old  minister,  with  his  brusque  manner  and  big  heart, 
would  have  no  truck  with  the  man  who  never  went  to 
church,  was  perpetually  in  liquor,  and  never  spoke  good 
of  his  neighbours.  Yet  he  entered  upon  the  interview 
fully  resolved  not  to  be  betrayed  into  an  unworthy 
expression  of  feeling;  rather  to  appeal  to  the  little  man's 
better  nature. 

The  conversation  had  not  been  in  progress  two  minutes, 
however,  before  he  knew  that,  where  he  had  meant  to  be 
calmly  persuasive,  he  was  fast  become  hotly  abusive. 

"You,  Mr.  Hornbut,  wi'  James  Moore  to  help  ye,  look 
after  the  lad's  soul,  I'll  see  to  his  body,"  the  little  man 
was  saying. 

The  parson's  thick  gray  eyebrows  lowered  threateningly 
over  his  eyes. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  talk  like  that. 
Which  d'you  think  the  more  important,  soul  or  body? 
Oughtn't  you,  his  father,  to  be  the  very  first  to  care  for 
the  boy's  soul?     If  not,  who  should?     Answer  me,  sir." 

The  little  man  stood  smirking  and  sucking  his  eternal 
twig,  entirely  unmoved  by  the  other's  heat. 

"Ye're  right,  Mr.  Hornbut,  as  ye  aye  are.  But  my 
argiment  is  this:  that  I  get  at  his  soul  best  through  his 
leetle  carcase." 

The  honest  parson  brought  down  his  stick  with  an  angry 
thud. 

"M'Adam,    you're    a    brute — a    brute!"  he    shouted. 


18  A  SON  OF  HAGAR 

At  which  outburst  the  little  man  was  seized  with  a  spasm 
of  silent  merriment. 

"A  fond  dad  first,  a  brute  afterward,  aiblins — he!  he! 
Ah,  Mr.  Hornbut!  ye  'ford  me  vast  diversion,  ye  do 
indeed,  'my  loved,  my  honoured,  much-respected  friend.'" 

"If  you  paid  as  much  heed  to  your  boy's  welfare  as  you 
do  to  the  bad  poetry  of  that  profligate  ploughman " 

An  angry  gleam  shot  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"D'ye  ken  what  blasphemy  is,  Mr.  Hornbut?"  he 
asked,  shouldering  a  pace  forv/ard. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  dispute  the  parson  thought  he 
was  about  to  score  a  point,  and  was  calm  accordingly. 

"I  should  do;  I  fancy  I've  a  specimen  of  the  breed 
before  me  now.      And  d'you  know  what  impertinence  is?" 

"I  should  do;  I  fancy  I've— I  awd  say  it's  what  gentle*- 
men  aften  are  unless  their  mammies  whipped  'em  as  lads." 

For  a  moment  the  parson  looked  as  if  about  to  seize 
his  opponent  and  shake  him. 

"M'Adam,"  he  roared,  "I'll  not  stand  your  insolences!" 

The  little  man  turned,  scuttled  indoors,  and  came 
running  back  with  a  chair. 

"Permit  me!"  he  said  blandly,  holding  it  before  him 
like  a  haircutter  for  a  customer. 

The  parson  turned  away.  At  the  gap  in  the  hedge  he 
paused. 

"I'll  only  say  one  thing  more,"  he  called  slowly. 
"When  your  wife,  whom  I  think  we  all  loved,  lay  dying  in 
that  room  above  you,  she  said  to  you  in  my  presence " 

It  was  M'Adam's  turn  to  be  angry.  He  made  a  step 
forward  with  burning  face. 

"Aince  and  for  a',  Mr.  Hornbut,"  he  cried  passionately, 
"onderstand  I'll  not  ha'  you  and  yer  likes  lay  yer  tongues 


A  SON  OF  HAGAR 


19 


on  ma  wife's  memory  whenever  it  suits  ye.  You  can  say 
what  ye  like  aboot  me — lies,  sneers,  snash — and  I'll  say 
naethin'.  I  dinna  ask  ye  to  respect  me;  I  think  ye  might 
do  sae  muckle  by  her,  puir  lass.  She  never  harmed  ye. 
Gin  ye  canna  let  her  bide  in  peace  where  she  lies  doon 
yonder" — he  waved  in  the  direction  of  the  churchyard — 
"ye'll  no  come  on  ma  land.  Though  she  is  dead  she's 
mine." 

Standing  in  front  of  his  house,  with  flushed  face  and  big 
eyes,  the  little  man  looked  almost  noble  in  his  indignation. 
And  the  parson,  striding  away  down  the  hill,  was  uneasily 
conscious  that  with  him  was  not  the  victory. 


CHAPTER  III 

RED   WULL 

THE  winter  came  and  went;  the  lambing  season  was 
over,  and  spring  already  shyly  kissing  the  land.  And 
the  back  of  the  year's  work  broken,  and  her  master  well 
started  on  a  fresh  season,  M'Adam's  old  collie,  Cuttie 
Sark,  lay  down  one  evening  and  passed  quietly  away. 
The  little  black-and-tan  lady,  Parson  Leggy  used  to  say, 
had  been  the  only  thing  on  earth  M'Adam  cared  for. 
Certainly  the  two  had  been  wondrously  devoted;  and  for 
many  a  market-day  the  Dalesmen  missed  the  shrill, 
chuckling  cry  which  heralded  the  pair's  approach :  "  Weel 
done,  Cuttie  Sark!" 

The  little  man  felt  his  loss  acutely,  and,  according  to  his 
wont,  vented  his  ill-feeling  on  David  and  the  Dalesmen. 
In  return,  Tammas,  whose  forte  lay  in  invective  and 
alliteration,  called  him  behind  his  back,  "A  wenomous 
one!"  and  "A  wiralent  wiper!"  to  the  applause  of  tinkling 
pewters. 

20 


RED  WULL  21 

A  shepherd  without  his  dog  is  like  a  ship  without  a 
rudder,  and  M'Adam  felt  his  loss  practically  as  well  as 
otherwise.  Especially  did  he  experience  this  on  a  day 
when  he  had  to  take  a  batch  of  draft-ewes  over  to  Gram- 
moch-town.  To  help  him  Jem  Burton  had  lent  the 
services  of  his  herring-gutted,  herring-hearted,  greyhound 
lurcher,  Monkey.  But  before  they  had  well  topped 
Braithwaite  Brow,  which  leads  from  the  village  on  to  the 
marches,  M'Adam  was  standing  in  the  track  with  a  rock 
in  his  hand,  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  the  tenderest  blandish- 
ments in  his  voice  as  he  coaxed  the  dog  to  him.  But 
Master  Monkey  knew  too  much  for  that.  However, 
after  gamboling  a  while  longer  in  the  middle  of  the  flock, 
a  boulder,  better  aimed  than  its  predecessors,  smote  him 
on  the  hinder  parts  and  sent  him  back  to  the  Sylvester 
Arms,  with  a  sore  tail  and  a  subdued  heart. 

For  the  rest,  M'Adam  would  never  have  won  over  the 
sheep-infested  marches  alone  with  his  convoy  had  it  not 
been  for  the  help  of  old  Saunderson  and  Shep,  who  caught 
him  on  the  way  and  aided  him. 

It  was  in  a  very  wrathful  mood  that  on  his  way 
home  he  turned  into  the  Dalesman's  Daughter  in  Silver- 
dale. 

The  only  occupants  of  the  tap-room,  as  he  entered, 
were  Teddy  Bolstock,  the  publican,  Jim  Mason,  with  the 
faithful  Betsy  beneath  his  chair  and  the  post-bags  flung 
into  the  corner,  and  one  long-limbed,  drover-like  man — a 
stranger. 

"And  he  coom  up  to  Mr.  Moore,"  Teddy  was  saying, 
"and  says  he:  'I'll  gie  ye  twal'  pun  for  yon  gray  dog  o' 
yourn.'  'Ah,'  says  Moore,  'yo'  may  gie  me  twal'  hun- 
ner'd  and  yet  you'll  not  get  ma  Bob.' — Eh,  Jim?" 


22  RED  WULL 

"And  he  did  thot,"  corroborated  Jim.  "'Twal'  hun- 
ner'd,'  says  he." 

"James  Mcore  and  his  dog  agin,'"  snapped  M'Adam. 
"There's  ithers  in  the  warld  for  bye  them  twa." 

"Ay,  but  none  like  'em,"  quoth  loyal  Jim. 

"Na,  thanks  be.  Gin  there  were  there'd  be  no  room  for 
Adam  M'Adam  in  this  'melancholy  vale.' " 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  and  then — : 

"You're  wantin'  a  tyke,  bain't  you,  Mr.  M'Adam?" 
Jim  asked. 

The  little  man  hopped  round  all  in  a  hurry. 

"What!"  he  cried  in  well-affected  eagerness,  scanning 
the  yellow  mongrel  beneath  the  chair.  "Betsy  for  sale! 
Guid  life!  Where's  ma  check-book!"  Whereat  Jim,  most 
easily  snubbed  of  men,  collapsed. 

M'Adam  took  off  his  dripping  coat  and  crossed  the  room 
to  hang  it  on  a  chair-back.  The  stranger  drover  followed 
the  meagre,  shirt-clad  figure  with  shifty  eyes;  then  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  mug. 

M'Adam  reached  out  a  hand  for  the  chair;  and  as  he 
did  so,  a  bomb  in  yellow  leapt  out  from  beneath  it,  and, 
growling  horribly,  attacked  his  ankles. 

"Curse  ye!"  cried  M'Adam,  starting  back.  "Ye  devil, 
let  me  alone!"  Then  turning  fiercely  on  the  drover, 
"Yours,  mister?"  he  asked.  The  man  nodded.  "Then 
call  him  aff,  can't  ye?  D — n  ye!"  At  which  Teddy 
Bolstock  withdrew,  sniggering;  and  Jim  Mason  slung  the 
post-bags  on  to  his  shoulder  and  plunged  out  into  the  rain, 
the  faithful  Betsy  following,  disconsolate. 

The  cause  of  the  squall,  having  beaten  off  the  attacking 
force,  had  withdrawn  again  beneath  its  chair.  M'Adam 
stooped  down,  still  cursing,  his  wet  coat  on  his  arm,  and 


RED  WULL  23 

beheld  a  tiny  yellow  puppy,  crouching  defiant  in  the  dark, 
and  glaring  out  with  fiery  light  eyes.  Seeing  itself 
remarked,  it  bared  its  little  teeth,  raised  its  little  bristles, 
and  growled  a  hideous  menace. 

A  sense  of  humour  is  many  a  man's  salvation,  and  was 
M 'Adam's  one  redeeming  feature.  The  laughableness  of 
the  thing — this  ferocious  atomy  defying  him — struck  home 
to  the  little  man.  Delighted  at  such  a  display  of  vice  in  so 
tender  a  plant,  he  fell  to  chuckling. 

"Ye  leetle  devil!"  he  laughed.  "He!  he!  ye  leetie 
devil!"  and  flipped  together  finger  and  thumb  in  vain 
endeavour  to  coax  the  puppy  to  him. 

But  it  growled,  and  glared  more  terribly. 

"Stop  it,  ye  little  snake,  or  I'll  flatten  you!"  cried  the 
big  drover,  and  shuffled  his  feet  threateningly.  Whereat 
the  puppy,  gurgling  like  hot  water  in  a  kettle,  made  a 
feint  as  though  to  advance  and  wipe  them  out,  these  two 
bad  men. 

M'Adam  laughed  again,  and  smote  his  leg. 

"Keep  a  ceevil  tongue  and  yer  distance,"  says  he, 
"or  I'll  e'en  ha'  to  mak'  ye.  Though  he  is  but  as  big  as  a 
man's  thumb,  a  dog's  a  dog  for  a'  that — he!  he!  the  leetle 
devil."  And  he  fell  to  flipping  finger  and  thumb  afresh. 

"Ye 're  maybe  wantin'  a  dog?"  inquired  the  stranger. 
"Yer  friend  said  as  much." 

"Ma  friend  lied;  it's  his  way,"  M'Adam  replied. 

"I'm  willin'  to  part  wi'  him,"  the  other  pursued. 

The  little  man  yawned.  "Weel,  I'll  tak'  him  to  oblige 
ye,"  he  said  indifferently. 

The  drover  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It's  givin'  'im  ye,  fair  givin'  'im  ye,  mind!  But  I'll  do 
it!" — he  smacked  a  great  fist  into  a  hollow  palm.     <sYe 


24  RED  WULL 

may  have  the  dog  for  a  pun' — I'll  only  ask  you  a  pun',''  and 
he  walked  away  to  the  window. 

M'Adam  drew  back,  the  better  to  scan  his  would-be 
benefactor;  his  lower  jaw  dropped,  and  he  eyed  the 
stranger  with  a  drolly  sarcastic  air. 

"A  poun',  man!  A  poun' — for  yon  noble  dorg!"  he 
pointed  a  crooked  forefinger  at  the  little  creature,  whose 
scowling  mask  peered  from  beneath  the  chair.  "Man,  I 
couldna  do  it.  Na,  na;  ma  conscience  wadna  permit  me. 
'Twad  be  fair  robbin'  ye.  Ah,  ye  Englishmen!"  he  spoke 
half  to  himself,  and  sadly,  as  if  deploring  the  unhappy 
accident  of  his  nationality;  "it's  yer  grand,  open-hairted 
generosity  that  grips  a  puir  Scotsman  by  the  throat. 
A  poun'!  and  for  yon!"  He  wagged  his  head  mournfully, 
cocking  it  sideways  the  better  to  scan  his  subject. 

"Take  him  or  leave  him,"  ordered  the  drover  trucu- 
lently, still  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

"Wi'  yer  permission  I'll  leave  him,"  M'Adam  answered 
meekly. 

"I'm  short  o'  the  ready,"  the  big  man  pursued,  "or  I 
wouldna  part  with  him.     Could  I  bide  me  time  there's 

many'd  be  glad  to  give  me  a  tenner  for  one  o'that  bree " 

he  caught  himself  up  hastily — "for  a  dog  sic  as  that." 

"And  yet  ye  offer  him  me  for  a  poun'!     Noble  indeed!" 

Nevertheless  the  little  man  had  pricked  his  ears  at  the 
other's  slip  and  quick  correction.  Again  he  approached 
the  puppy,  dangling  his  coat  before  him  to  protect  his 
ankles;  and  again  that  wee  wild  beast  sprang  out,  seized 
the  coat  in  its  small  jaw,  and  worried  it  savagely. 

M'Adam  stooped  quickly  and  picked  up  his  tiny 
assailant;  and  the  puppy,  suspended  by  its  neck,  gurgled 
and  slobbered;  then,  wriggling  desperately  round,  made  its 


RED  WULL  25 

teeth  meet  in  its  adversary's  shirt.  At  which  M'Adam 
shook  it  gently  and  laughed.     Then  he  set  to  examining  it. 

Apparently  some  six  weeks  old;  a  tawny  coat,  fiery  eyes, 
a  square  head  with  small,  cropped  ears,  and  a  com- 
paratively immense  jaw;  the  whole  giving  promise  of 
great  strength,  if  little  beauty.  And  this  effect  was 
enhanced  by  the  manner  of  its  docking.  For  the 
miserable  relic  of  a  tail,  yet  raw,  looked  little  more  than  a 
red  button  adhering  to  its  wearer's  stern. 

M'Adam's  inspection  was  as  minute  as  it  was  apparently 
absorbing;  he  omitted  nothing  from  the  square  muzzle  to 
the  lozenge-like  scut.  And  every  now  and  then  he  threw  a 
quick  glance  at  the  man  at  the  window,  who  was  watching 
the  careful  scrutiny  a  thought  uneasily. 

"Ye've  cut  him  short,"  he  said  at  length,  swinging 
round  on  the  drover. 

"Ay;  strengthens  their  backs,"  the  big  man  answered 
with  averted  gaze. 

M'Adam's  chin  went  up  in  the  air;  his  mouth  partly 
opened  and  his  eyelids  partly  closed  as  he  eyed  his  in- 
formant. 

"Oh,  ay,"  he  said. 

"Gie  him  back  to  me,"  ordered  the  drover  surlily.  He 
took  the  puppy  and  set  it  on  the  floor;  whereupon  it 
immediately  resumed  its  former  fortified  position.  "  Ye're 
no  buyer;  I  knoo  that  all  along  by  that  face  on  ye,"  he 
said  in  insulting  tones. 

"Ye  wad  ha'  bought  him  yerself ,  nae  doot?"  M'Adam 
inquired  blandly. 

"In  course;  if  you  says  so." 

"Or  airblins  ye  bred  him?" 

"'Appenldid." 


26  RED  WULL 

"  Ye'll  no  be  from  these  parts  ?" 

"Will  I  no?"  answered  the  other. 

A  smile  of  genuine  pleasure  stole  over  M'Adam's  face. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"Man,"  he  said  gently,  "ye  mind  me  o'  hame."  Then 
almost  in  the  same  breath:     "Ye  said  ye  found  him?" 

It  was  the  stranger's  turn  to  laugh. 

"Ha!  ha!  Ye  teeckle  me,  little  mon.  Found  'im? 
Nay;  I  was  give  'im  by  a  friend.  But  there's  nowt  amiss 
wi'  his  breedin',  ye  may  believe  me." 

The  great  fellow  advanced  to  the  chair  under  which  the 
puppy  lay.  It  leapt  out  like  a  lion,  and  fastened  on  his 
huge  boot. 

"A  rare  bred  un,  look  'ee!  a  rare  game  un.  Ma  word, 
he's  a  big-hearted  un!  Look  at  the  back  on  him;  see  the 
jaws  to  him;  mark  the  pluck  of  him!"  He  shook  his 
booted  foot  fiercely,  tossing  his  leg  to  and  fro  like  a  tree  in 
a  wind.  But  the  little  creature,  now  raised  ceilingward, 
now  dashed  to  the  ground,  held  on  with  incomparable 
doggedness,  till  its  small  jaw  was  all  bloody  and  muzzle 
wrinkled  with  the  effort. 

"Ay,  ay,  that'll  do,"  M'Adam  interposed,  irritably. 

The  drover  ceased  his  efforts. 

"Now,  I'll  mak'  ye  a  last  offer."  He  thrust  his  head 
down  to  a  level  with  the  other's,  shooting  out  his  neck. 
"It's  throwin'  him  at  ye,  mind.  'Tain't  buyin'  him  ye'll 
be — don't  go  for  to  deceive  yourself.  Ye  may  have  him 
for  fifteen  shillin'.  Why  do  I  do  it,  ye  ask?  Why,' cos  1 
think  ye'll  be  kind  to  him,"  as  the  puppy  retreated  to  its 
chair,  leaving  a  spotted  track  of  red  along  its  route. 

"Ay,  ye  wadna  be  happy  gin  ye  thocht  he'd  no  a 
comfortable  hame,  conseederate  man?"  M'Adam  answer- 


RED  WULL  27 

ed,  eyeing  the  dark  track  on  the  floor.  Then  he  put  on 
his  coat. 

"Na,  na,  he's  no  for  me.  Weel,  I'll  no  detain  ye. 
Good-nicht  to  ye,  mister!"  and  he  made  for  the  door. 

"A  gran'  worker  he'll  be,"  called  the  drover  after  him. 

"Ay;  muckle  wark  he'll  mak'  amang  the  sheep  wi'  sic 
a  jaw  and  sic  a  temper.  Weel,  I  maun  be  steppin'. 
Good-nicht  to  ye." 

"  Ye'll  niver  have  sich  anither  chanst." 

"Nor  niver  wush  to.  Na,  na;  he'll  never  mak'  a  sheep- 
dog"; and  the  little  man  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  ccat. 

"Will  he  not?"  cried  the  other  scornfully.  "There 
niver  yet  was  one  o'  that  line "  he  stopped  abruptly. 

The  little  man  spun  round. 

"Iss?"  he  said,  as  innocent  as  any  child;  "ye  were 
sayin'?" 

The  other  turned  to  the  window  and  watched  the  rain 
falling  monotonously. 

"Ye'll  be  wantin'  wet,"  he  said  adroitly. 

"Ay,  we  could  do  wi'  a  drappin'.  And  he'll  never  mak* 
a  sheep-dog."  He  shoved  his  cap  down  on  his  head. 
"Weel,  good-nicht  to  ye!"  and  he  stepped  out  into  the 
rain. 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  the  bargain  was  finally 
struck. 

Adam  M'Adam's  Red  Wull  became  that  little  man's 
property  for  the  following  realizable  assets:  ninepence  in 
cash — three  coppers  and  a  doubtful  sixpence;  a  plug  of  sus- 
picious tobacco  in  a  well-worn  pouch;  and  an  old  watch. 

"It's  clean  givin'  'im  ye,"  said  the  stranger  bitterly, 
at  the  end  of  the  deal. 


28  RED  WULL 

"It's  mair  the  chanty  than  aught  else  mak's  me  sae 
leeberal,"  the  other  answered  gently.  "I  wad  not  like  to 
see  ye  pinched." 

"Thank  ye  kindly,"  the  big  man  replied  with  some 
acerbity,  and  plunged  out  into  the  darkness  and  rain. 
Nor  was  that  long-limbed  drover-man  ever  again  seen  in 
the  countryside.  And  the  puppy's  previous  history — 
whether  he  was  honestly  come  by  or  no,  whether  he  was, 
indeed,  of  the  famous  Red  McCulloch*  strain,  ever 
remained  a  mystery  in  the  Daleland. 

*N.B. — You  may  know  a  Red  McCulloch  anywhere  by  the  ring  of  white  upon 
his  tail  some  two  inches  from  the  root. 


CHAPTER  IV 


FIRST   BLOOD 


/&FTER  that  first  encounter  in  the  Dalesman's 
X\.  Daughter,  Red  Wull,  for  so  M'Adam  called  him, 
resigned  himself  complacently  to  his  lot;  recognizing, 
perhaps,  his  destiny. 

Thenceforward  the  sour  little  man  and  the  vicious  puppy 
grew,  as  it  were,  together.  The  two  were  never  apart. 
Where  M'Adam  was,  there  was  sure  to  be  his  tiny  atten- 
dant, bristling  defiance  as  he  kept  ludicrous  guard  over  his 
master. 

The  little  man  and  his  dog  were  inseparable.  M'Adam 
never  left  him  even  at  the  Grange. 

"I  couldna  trust  ma  Wullie  at  hame  alone  wi'  the  dear 
lad,"  was  his  explanation.  "I  ken  weel  I'd  come  back  to 
find  a  wee  corpse  on  the  floor,  and  David  singin' : 


'My  heart  is  sair,  1  daur  na  tell, 
My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody.' 

29 


3o  FIRST  BLOOD 

Ay,  and  he'd  be  sair  elsewhere  by  the  time  I'd  done  wi* 
him — he!  he!" 

The  sneer  at  David's  expense  was  as  characteristic  as  it 
was  unjust.  For  though  the  puppy  and  the  boy  were 
already  sworn  enemies,  yet  the  lad  would  have  scorned  to 
harm  so  small  a  foe.  And  many  a  tale  did  David  tell  at 
Kenmuir  of  Red  Wull's  viciousness,  of  his  hatred  of  him 
(David),  and  his  devotion  to  his  master;  how,  whether 
immersed  in  the  pig-bucket  or  chasing  the  fleeting  rabbit, 
he  would  desist  at  once,  and  bundle,  panting,  up  at  his 
master's  call;  how  he  routed  the  tomcat  and  drove  him 
from  the  kitchen;  and  how  he  clambered  on  to  David's 
bed  and  pinned  him  murderously  by  the  nose. 

Of  late  the  relations  between  M'Adam  and  James 
Moore  had  been  unusually  strained.  Though  they  were 
neighbours,  communications  between  the  two  were  of  the 
rarest;  and  it  was  for  the  first  time  for  many  a  long  day 
that,  on  an  afternoon  shortly  after  Red  Wull  had  come  into 
his  possession,  M'Adam  entered  the  yard  of  Kenmuir, 
bent  on  girding  at  the  master  for  an  alleged  trespass  at  the 
Stony  Bottom. 

"Wi'  yer  permission,  Mr.  Moore,"  said  the  little  man, 
"I'll  wheestle  ma  dog,"  and,  turning,  he  whistled  a  shrill, 
peculiar  note  like  the  cry  of  a  disturbed  peewit. 

Straightway  there  came  scurrying  desperately  up,  ears 
back,  head  down,  tongue  out,  as  if  the  world  depended  on 
his  speed,  a  little  tawny  beetle  of  a  thing,  who  placed  his 
forepaws  against  his  master's  ankles  and  looked  up  into 
his  face;  then,  catching  sight  of  the  strangers,  hurriedly  he 
took  up  his  position  between  them  and  M'Adam,  assuming 
his  natural  attitude  of  grisly  defiance.  Such  a  laughable* 
spectacle  he  made,  that  martial  mite,  standing  at  bay  with 


FIRST  BLOOD  31 

bristles  up  and  teeth  bared,  that  even  James  Moore  smiled. 

"Ma  word!  Ha'  yo'  brought  his  muzzle,  man?"  cried 
old  Tammas,  the  humourist;  and,  turning,  climbed  all  in  a 
heat  on  to  an  upturned  bucket  that  stood  by.  Whereat 
the  puppy,  emboldened  by  his  foe's  retreat,  advanced 
savagely  to  the  attack,  buzzing  round  the  slippery  pail  like 
a  wasp  on  a  windowpane,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  reach  the 
old  man. 

Tammas  stood  on  the  top,  hitching  his  trousers  and 
looking  down  on  his  assailant,  the  picture  of  mortal  fear. 

"'Elp!  Oh,  'elp!"  he  bawled.  "Send  for  the  sogers! 
Fetch  the  p'lice!  For  lawk-a-mussy's  sake  call  him  off, 
man!"  Even  Sam'l  Todd,  watching  the  scene  from  the 
cart-shed,  was  tickled  and  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw, 
heartily  backed  by  'Enry  and  oor  Job.  While  M'Adam 
remarked:  "Ye're  fitter  for  a  stage  than  a  stable-bucket, 
Mr.  Thornton." 

"How  didst  come  by  him?"  asked  Tammas,  nodding 
at  the  puppy. 

"Found  him,"  the  little  man  replied,  sucking  his  twig. 
"Found  him  in  ma  stockin'  on  ma  birthday.  A  present 
from  ma  leetle  David  for  his  auld  dad,  I  doot." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Tammas,  and  was  seized  with  sudden 
spasm  of  seemingly  causeless  merriment.  For  looking  up 
as  M'Adam  was  speaking,  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
boy's  fair  head,  peering  cautiously  round  the  cowshed,  and, 
behind,  the  flutter  of  short  petticoats.  They  disappeared 
as  silently  as  they  had  come;  and  two  small  figures,  just 
returned  from  school,  glided  away  and  sought  shelter  in 
the  friendly  darkness  of  a  coal-hole. 

"Coom  awa',  Maggie,  coom  awa'!  'Tis  th'  owd  un> 
'isself,"  whispered  a  disrespectful  voice. 


32  FIRST  BLOOD 

M'Adam  looked  round  suspiciously. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  sharply. 

At  that  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Moore  put  her  head  out 
of  the  kitchen  window. 

"Coom  thy  ways  in,  Mister  M'Adam,  and  tak'  a  soop 
o'  tea,"  she  called  hospitably. 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  Mrs.  Moore,  I  will,"  he  answered, 
politely  for  him.  And  this  one  good  thing  must  be  allowed 
of  Adam  M'Adam:  that,  if  there  was  only  one  woman  of 
whom  he  was  ever  known  to  speak  well,  there  was  also  only 
one,  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  against  whom  he  ever 
insinuated  evil — and  that  was  years  afterward,  when  men 
said  his  brain  was  sapped.  Flouts  and  jeers  he  had  for 
every  man,  but  a  woman,  good  or  bad,  was  sacred  to  him. 
For  the  sex  that  had  given  him  his  mother  and  his  wife  he 
had  that  sentiment  of  tender  reverence  which,  if  a  man 
still  preserve,  he  cannot  be  altogether  bad.  As  he  turned 
into  the  house  he  looked  back  at  Red  Wull. 

"Ay,  we  may  leave  him,"  he  said.  "That  is,  gin  ye're 
no  afraid,  Mr.  Thornton  ?" 

Of  what  happened  while  the  men  were  within  doors,  it  is 
enough  to  tell  two  things.  First,  that  Owd  Bob  was  no 
bully.  Second,  this:  In  the  code  of  sheep-dog  honour 
there  is  written  a  word  in  stark  black  letters;  and  opposite 
it  another  word,  writ  large  in  the  colour  of  blood.  The 
first  is  "Sheep-murder";  the  second,  "Death."  It  is  the 
one  crime  only  to  be  wiped  away  in  blood;  and  to  accuse 
of  the  crime  is  to  offer  the  one  unpardonable  insult. 
Every  sheep-dog  knows  it,  and  every  shepherd. 

That  afternoon,  as  the  men  still  talked,  the  quiet 
echoes  of  the  farm  rung  with  a  furious  animal  cry,  twice 


FIRST  BLOOD  33 

repeated:     "Shot  for  sheep-murder" — "Shot  for  sheep- 
murder";  followed  by  a  hollow  stillness. 

The  two  men  finished  their  colloquy.  The  matter  was 
concluded  peacefully,  mainly  owing  to  the  pacifying  in- 
fluence of  Mrs.  Moore.  Together  the  three  went  out  into 
the  yard;  Mrs.  Moore  seizing  the  opportunity  to  shyly 
speak  on  David's  behalf. 

"He's  such  a  good  little  lad,  I  do  think,"  she  was  saying. 

"Ye  should  ken,  Mrs.  Moore,"  the  little  man  answered, 
a  thought  bitterly;  "ye  see  enough  of  him." 

"Yo'  mun  be  main  proud  of  un,  mester,"  the  woman 
continued,  heedless  of  the  sneer:  "an'  'im  growin'  such  a 
gradely  lad." 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  barely  ken  the  lad,"  he  said.  "By  sight  I  know 
Hm,  of  course,  but  barely  to  speak  to.  He's  but  seldom 
at  hame." 

"An'  hoo  proud  his  mother'd  be  if  she  could  see  him," 
the  woman  continued,  well  aware  of  his  one  tender  place. 
"  Eh,  but  she  was  fond  o'  him,  so  she  was." 

An  angry  flush  stole  over  the  little  man's  face.  Well  he 
understood  the  implied  rebuke;  and  it  hurt  him  like  a 
knife. 

"Ay,  ay,  Mrs.  Moore,"  he  began.  Then  breaking  ofF, 
and  looking  about  him — "Where's  ma  Wullie?"  he  cried 
excitedly.  "James  Moore!"  whipping  round  on  the 
Master,  "ma  Wullie's  gone — gone,  I  say!" 

Elizabeth  Moore  turned  away  indignantly. 

"I  do  declar'  he  tak's  more  fash  after  yon  little  yaller 
beastie  than  iver  he  does  after  his  own  flesh,"  she  mut- 
tered. 


34  FIRST  BLOOD 

"  Wullie,  ma  wee  doggie !  Wullie,  where  are  ye  ?  James 
Moore,  he's  gone — ma  Wullie's  gone !"  cried  the  little  man, 
running  about  the  yard,  searching  everywhere. 

"Cannot  'a'  gotten  far,"  said  the  Master,  reassuringly, 
looking  about  him. 

"Niver  no  tellin',"  said  Sam'l,  appearing  on  the  scene, 
pig-bucket  in  hand.  "I  misdoot  yo'll  iver  see  your  dog 
agin,  mister."     He  turned  sorrowfully  to  M'Adam. 

That  little  man,  all  dishevelled,  and  with  the  per- 
spiration standing  on  his  face,  came  hurrying  out  of  the 
cow-shed  and  danced  up  to  the  Master. 

"It's  robbed  I  am — robbed,  I  tell  ye!"  he  cried  reck- 
lessly. "Ma  wee  Wull's  bin  stolen  while  I  was  ben  your 
hoose,  James  Moore!" 

"Yo'  munna  say  that,  ma  mon.  No  robbin'  at  Ken- 
muir,"  the  Master  answered  sternly. 

"Then  where  is  he  ?     It's  for  you  to  say." 

"I've  ma  own  idee,  I  'ave,"  Sam'l  announced  op- 
portunely, pig-bucket  uplifted. 

M'Adam  turned  on  him. 

"What,  man?    What  is  it?" 

"I  misdoot  yo'll  iver  see  your  dog  agin,  mister,"  Sam'l 
repeated,  as  if  he  was  supplying  the  key  to  the  mys- 
tery. 

"Noo,  Sam'l,  if  yo'  know  owt  tell  it,"  ordered  his 
master. 

Sam'l  grunted  sulkily. 

"Wheer'soor  Bob,  then?"  he  asked. 

At  that  M'Adam  turned  on  the  Master. 

"'Tis  that,  nae  doot.     It's  yer  gray  dog,  James  Moore, 

yer dog.     I  might  ha'  kent  it," — and  he  loosed  off  a 

volley  of  foul  words. 


FIRST  BLOOD  35 

"Sweerin'  will  no  find  him/'  said  the  Master  coldly. 
"Noo,  Sam'l." 

The  big  man  shifted  his  feet,  and  looked  mournfully  at 
M'Adam. 

"  'Twas  'appen  'alf  an  hour  agone,  when  I  sees  oor  Bob 
goin'  oot  o'  yard  wi'  little  yaller  tyke  in  his  mouth.  In  a 
minnit  I  looks  agin — and  theer !  little  yaller  'un  was  gone, 
and  oor  Bob  a-sittin'  a-lickin'  his  chops.  Gone  foriver, 
I  do  reck'n.  Ah,  yo'  may  well  take  on,  Tammas  Thorn- 
ton!" For  the  old  man  was  rolling  about  the  yard,  bent 
double  with  merriment. 

M'Adam  turned  on  the  Master  with  the  resignation  of 
despair. 

"Man,  Moore,"  he  cried  piteously,  "it's  yer  gray  dog 
has  murdered  ma  wee  Wull!  Ye  have  it  from  yer  ain 
man." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Master  encouragingly.  "  'Tis  but 
yon  girt  oof." 

Sam'l  tossed  his  head  and  snorted. 

"Coom,  then,  and  I'll  show  yo',"  he  said,  and  led  the 
way  out  of  the  yard.  And  there  below  them  on  the  slope 
to  the  stream,  sitting  like  Justice  at  the  Courts  of  Law, 
was  Owd  Bob. 

Straightway  Sam'l  whose  humour  was  something  of  the 
calibre  of  old  Ross's,  the  sexton,  burst  into  horse-merri- 
ment. "Why's  he  sittin'  so  still,  think  'ee?  Ho!  ho!  See 
un  lickin'  his  chops — ha!  ha!" — and  he  roared  afresh. 
While  from  afar  you  could  hear  the  distant  rumbling  of 
'Enry  and  oor  Job. 

At  the  sight,  M'Adam  burst  into  a  storm  of  passionate 
invective,  and  would  have  rushed  on  the  dog  had  not 
James  Moore  forcibly  restrained  him. 


36  FIRST  BLOOD 

"Bob,  lad,"  called  the  Master,  "coom  here!" 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  the  gray  dog  cocked  his  ears, 
listened  a  moment,  and  then  shot  down  the  slope.  At  the 
same  moment  Tammas  hallooed:  "Theer  he  be!  yon's 
yaller  un  coomin,  oot  o'  drain!  La,  Sam'l!"  And  there, 
indeed,  on  the  slope  below  them,  a  little  angry,  smutty- 
faced  figure  was  crawling  out  of  a  rabbit-burrow. 

"Ye  murderin'  devil,  wad  ye  duar  touch  ma  Wullie?" 
yelled  M'Adam,  and,  breaking  away,  pursued  hotly  down, 
the  hill;  for  the  gray  dog  had  picked  up  the  puppy,  like  a 
lancer  a  tent-peg,  and  was  sweeping  on,  his  captive  in  his 
mouth,  toward  the  stream. 

Behind,  hurried  James  Moore  and  Sam'l,  wondering 
what  the  issue  of  the  comedy  would  be.  After  them 
toddled  old  Tammas,  chuckling.  While  over  the  yard- 
wall  was  now  a  little  cluster  of  heads:  'Enry,  oor  Job, 
Maggie  and  David,  and  Vi'let  Thornton,  the  dairymaid. 

Straight  on  to  the  plank-bridge  galloped  Owd  Bob.  In 
the  middle  he  halted,  leant  over,  and  dropped  his  prisoner; 
who  fell  with  a  cool  plop  into  the  running  water  beneath. 

Another  moment  and  M'Adam  had  reached  the  bank 
of  the  stream.  In  he  plunged,  splashing  and  cursing,  and 
seized  the  struggling  puppy;  then  waded  back,  the  waters 
surging  about  his  waist,  and  Red  Wull,  limp  as  a  wet  rag, 
in  his  hand.  The  little  man's  hair  was  dripping,  for  his 
cap  was  gone;  his  clothes  clung  to  him,  exposing  the  miser- 
ableness  of  his  figure;  and  his  eyes  blazed  like  hot  ashes  in 
his  wet  face.  - 

He  sprang  on  to  the  bank,  and,  beside  himself  with 
passion,  rushed  at  Owd  Bob. 

"Curse  ye  for  a " 

"Stan'  back,  or  yo'll  have  him  at  your  throat!"  shouted 


FIRST  BLOOD  37 

the  Master,  thundering  up.  "Stan'  back,  I  say,  yo* 
fule!"  And,  as  the  little  man  still  came  madly  on,  he 
reached  forth  his  hand  and  hurled  him  back;  at  the  same 
moment,  bending,  he  buried  the  other  hand  deep  in  Owd 
Bob's  shaggy  neck.  It  was  but  just  in  time;  for  if  ever 
the  fierce  desire  of  battle  gleamed  in  gray  eyes,  it  did  in  the 
young  dog's  as  M'Adam  came  down  on  him. 

The  little  man  staggered,  tottered,  and  fell  heavily. 
At  the  shock,  the  blood  gushed  from  his  nose,  and,  mixing 
with  the  water  on  his  face,  ran  down  in  vague  red  streams, 
dripping  off  his  chin;  while  Red  Wull,  jerked  from  his 
grasp,  was  thrown  afar,  and  lay  motionless. 

"Curse  ye!"  M'Adam  screamed,  his  face  dead-white 
save  for  the  running  red  about  his  jaw.  "Curse  ye  for  a 
cowardly  Englishman!"  and,  struggling  to  his  feet,  he 
made  at  the  Master. 

But  Sam'l  interposed  his  great  hulk  between  the  two. 

"Easy,  little  mon,"  he  said  leisurely,  regarding  the 
small  fury  before  him  with  mournful  interest.  "Eh,  but 
thee  do  be  a  little  spit-cat,  surely!" 

James  Moore  stood,  breathing  deep,  his  hand  still 
buried  in  Owd  Bob's  coat. 

"If  yo'd  touched  him,"  he  explained,  "I  couldna  ha' 
stopped  him.  He'd  ha'  mauled  yo'  afore  iver  I  could  haJ 
had  him  off.  They're  bad  to  hold,  the  Gray  Dogs,  when 
they're  roosed." 

"Ay,  ma  word,  that  they  are!"  corroborated  Tammas. 
speaking  from  the  experience  of  sixty  years.  "Once  on, 
yo'  canna  get  'em  off." 

The  little  man  turned  away. 

"Ye're  all  agin  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook.  A 
pitiful  figure  he  made,   standing  there  with  the  water 


38 


FIRST  BLOOD 


dripping  from  him.  A  red  stream  was  running  slowly 
from  his  chin;  his  head  was  bare,  and  face  working. 

James  Moore  stood  eyeing  him  with  some  pity  and  some 
contempt.  Behind  was  Tammas,  enjoying  the  scene. 
While  Sam'l  regarded  them  all  with  an  impassive  melan- 
choly. 

M'Adam  turned  and  bent  over  Red  Wull,  who  still  lay 
like  a  dead  thing.  As  his  master  handled  him,  the  button- 
tail  quivered  feebly;  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  about 
him,  snarled  faintly,  and  glared  with  devilish  hate  at  the 
gray  dog  and  the  group  with  him. 

The  little  man  picked  him  up,  stroking  him  tenderly. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  on  to  the  bridge.  Half-way 
across  he  stopped.  It  rattled  feverishly  beneath  him,  for 
he  still  trembled  like  a  palsied  man. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  called,  striving  to  quell  the  agi- 
tation in  his  voice — "I  wad  shoot  yon  dog." 

Across  the  bridge  he  turned  again. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  called  and  paused.  "Ye'll  not 
forget  this  day."  And  with  that  the  blood  flared  up  a  dull 
crimson  into  his  white  face. 


PART  II 
THE  LITTLE  MAN 


^.        ^  .-.  BBSS     ■•■"*"     ',, j  "^, '  11'^, -  „.  ,   ._  ^  <**&& 


CHAPTER  V 


A   MAN  S    SON 


THE    storm,    long    threatened,   having    once    burst, 
M'Adam  allowed  loose  rein  to  his  bitter  animosity 
against  James  Moore. 

The  two  often  met.  For  the  little  man  frequently 
returned  home  from  the  village  by  the  footpath  across 
Kenmuir.  It  was  out  of  his  way,  but  he  preferred  it  in 
order  to  annoy  his  enemy  and  keep  a  watch  upon  his 
doings. 

He  haunted  Kenmuir  like  its  evil  genius.  His  sallow 
face  was  perpetually  turning  up  at  inopportune  moments. 
When  Kenmuir  Queen,  the  prize  short-horn  heifer,  calved 
unexpectedly  and  unattended  in  the  dip  by  the  lane,  Tam- 
mas  and  the  Master,  summoned  hurriedly  by  Owd  Bob, 
came  running  up  to  find  the  little  man  leaning  against  the 
stile,  and  shaking  with  silent  merriment.  Again,  poor  old 
Staggy,  daring  still  in  his  dotage,  took  a  fall  while  scram- 
bling on  the  steep  banks  of  the  Stony  Bottom.     There  hf 

41 


42  A  MAN'S  SON 

lay  for  hours,  unnoticed  and  kicking,  until  James  Moore 
and  Owd  Bob  came  upon  him  at  length,  nearly  exhausted. 
But  M'Adam  was  before  them. 

Standing  on  the  far  bank  with  Red  Wull  by  his  side,  he 
called  across  the  gulf  with  apparent  concern:  "He's  bin 
so  sin'  yesternight."  Often  James  Moore,  with  all  his 
great  strength  of  character,  could  barely  control  himself. 

There  were  two  attempts  to  patch  up  the  feud.  Jim 
Mason,  who  went  about  the  world  seeking  to  do  good, 
tried  in  his  shy  way  to  set  things  right.  But  M'Adam  and 
his  Red  Wull  between  them  soon  shut  him  and  Betsy  up. 

"You  mind  yer  letters  and  yer  wires,  Mr.  Poacher- 
Postman.  Ay,  I  saw  'em  baith:  th'  ain  doon  by  the 
Haughs,  t'ither  in  the  Bottom.  And  there's  Wullie,  the 
humorsome  chiel,  havin'  a  rare  game  wi'  Betsy."  There, 
indeed,  lay  the  faithful  Betsy,  suppliant  on  her  back,  paws 
up,  throat  exposed,  while  Red  Wull,  now  a  great-grown 
puppy,  stood  over  her,  his  habitually  evil  expression 
intensified  into  a  fiendish  grin,  as  with  wrinkled  muzzle 
and  savage  wheeze  he  waited  for  a  movement  as  a  pre- 
text to  pin:  "Wullie,  let  the  leddy  be — ye've  had  yer  din- 
ner. 

Parson  Leggy  was  the  other  would-be  mediator;  for  he 
hated  to  see  the  two  principal  parishioners  of  his  tiny 
cure  at  enmity.  First  he  tackled  James  Moore  on  the 
subject;  but  that  laconic  person  cut  him  short  with,  "I've 
nowt  agin  the  little  mon,"  and  would  say  no  more.  And, 
indeed,  the  quarrel  was  none  of  his  making. 

Of  the  parson's  interview  with  M'Adam,  it  is  enough  to 
say  here  that,  in  the  end,  the  angry  old  minister  would  of  a 
surety  have  assaulted  his  mocking  adversary  had  not 
Cyril  Gilbraith  forcibly  withheld  him. 


A  MAN'S  SON  43 

And  after  that  the  vendetta  must  take  its  course  un- 
checked. 

David  was  now  the  only  link  between  the  two  farms. 
Despite  his  father's  angry  commands,  the  boy  clung  to  his 
intimacy  with  the  Moores  with  a  doggedness  that  no 
thrashing  could  overcome.  Not  a  minute  of  the  day  when 
out  of  school,  holidays  and  Sundays  included,  but  was 
passed  at  Kenmuir.  It  was  not  till  late  at  night  that  he 
would  sneak  back  to  the  Grange,  and  creep  quietly  up  to 
his  tiny  bare  room  in  the  roof — not  supperless,  indeed, 
motherly  Mrs.  Moore  had  seen  to  that.  And  there  he 
would  lie  awake  and  listen  with  a  fierce  contempt  as  his 
father,  hours  later,  lurched  into  the  kitchen  below,  lilting 
liquorishly: 

"We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw', 

And  ay  we'll  taste  the  bareley  bree!" 

And  in  the  morning  the  boy  would  slip  quietly  out  of  the 
house  while  his  father  still  slept;  only  Red  Wull  would 
thrust  out  his  savage  head  as  the  lad  passed,  and  snarl 
hungrily. 

Sometimes  f  atlier  and  son  would  go  thus  for  weeks  with- 
out sight  of  one  another.  And  that  was  David's  aim — to 
escape  attention.  It  was  only  his  cunning  at  this  game  of 
evasion  that  saved  him  a  thrashing. 

The  little  man  seemed  devoid  of  all  natural  affection  for 
his  son.  He  lavished  the  whole  fondness  of  which  his 
small  nature  appeared  capable  on  the  Tailless  lyke,  for 
so  the  Dalesmen  called  Red  Wull.  And  the  dog  he 
treated  with  a  careful  tenderness  that  made  David  smile 
bitterly. 


44  A  MAN'S  SON 

The  little  man  and  his  dog  were  as  alike  morally  as 
physically  they  were  contrasted.  Each  owed  a  grudge 
against  the  world  and  was  determined  to  pay  it.  Each 
was  an  Ishmael  among  his  kind. 

You  saw  them  thus,  standing  apart,  leper-like,  in  the 
turmoil  of  life;  and  it  came  quite  as  a  revelation  to 
happen  upon  them  in  some  quiet  spot  of  nights,  playing 
together,  each  wrapped  in  the  game,  innocent,  tender, 
forgetful  of  the  hostile  world. 

The  two  were  never  separated  except  only  when 
M'Adam  came  home  by  the  path  across  Kenmuir.  After 
that  first  misadventure  he  never  allowed  his  friend  to 
accompany  him  on  the  journey  through  the  enemy's 
country;  for  well  he  knew  that  sheep-dogs  have  long 
memories. 

To  the  stile  in  the  lane,  then,  Red  Wull  would  follow 
him.  There  he  would  stand,  his  great  head  poked  through 
the  bars,  watching  his  master  out  of  sight;  and  then  would 
turn  and  trot,  self-reliant  and  defiant,  sturdy  and  surly, 
down  the  very  centre  of  the  road  through  the  village — 
no  playing,  no  enticing  away,  and  woe  to  that  man  or 
dog  who  tried  to  stay  him  in  his  course!  And  so  on, 
past  Mother  Ross's  shop,  past  the  Sylvester  Arms,  to 
the  right  by  Kirby's  smithy,  over  the  Wastrel  by  the 
Haughs,  to  await  his  master  at  the  edge  of  the  Stony 
Bottom. 

The  little  man,  when  thus  crossing  Kenmuir,  often  met 
Owd  Bob,  who  had  the  free  run  of  the  farm.  On  these 
occasions  he  passed  discreetly  by;  for,  though  he  was  no 
coward,  yet  it  is  bad,  single-handed,  to  attack  a  Gray  Dog 
of  Kenmuir;  while  the  dog  trotted  soberly  on  his  way, 
only  a  steely  glint  in  the  big  gray  eyes  betraying  his  knowL 


A  MAN'S  SON  45 

edge  of  the  presence  of  his  foe.  As  surely,  however,  as  the 
little  man,  in  his  desire  to  spy  out  the  nakedness  of  the 
land,  strayed  off  the  public  path,  so  surely  a  gray  figure, 
seeming  to  spring  from  out  the  blue,  would  come  fiercely, 
silently  driving  down  on  him;  and  he  would  turn  and  run 
for  his  life,  amid  the  uproarious  jeers  of  any  of  the  farm- 
hands who  were  witness  to  the  encounter. 

On  these  occasions  David  vied  with  Tammas  in  face- 
tiousness  at  his  father's  expense. 

"Good  on  yo',  little  un!"  he  roared  from  behind  a  wall, 
on  one  such  occurrence. 

"Bain't  he  a  runner,  neither?"  yelled  Tammas,  not  to 
be  outdone.     "See  un  skip  it — ho!     ho!" 

"Look  to  his  knees  a-wamblinV  from  the  undutiful 
son  in  ecstasy.  "An'  I'd  knees  like  yon,  I'd  wear  petti- 
coats." As  he  spoke,  a  swinging  box  on  the  ear  nearly 
knocked  the  young  reprobate  down. 

"D'  yo'  think  God  gave  you  a  dad  for  you  to  jeer  at? 
Y*  ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  yo'self.  Serve  yo'  right  if  he 
does  thrash  yo'  when  yo'  get  home."  And  David,  turn- 
ing round,  found  James  Moore  close  behind  him,  his 
heavy  eyebrows  lowering  over  his  eyes. 

Luckily,  M'Adam  had  not  distinguished  his  son's  voice 
among  the  others.  But  David  feared  he  had;  for  on  the 
following  morning  the  little  man  said  to  him: 

"David,  ye'll  come  hame  immediately  after  school 
to-day." 

"Willi?"  said  David  pertly. 

"Ye  will." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  tell  ye  to,  ma  lad";  and  that  was  all  the 
reason  he  would  give.    Had  he  told  the  simple  fact  that 


46  A  MAN'S  SON 

he  wanted  help  to  drench  a  "husking"  ewe,  things  might 
have  gone  differently.  As  it  was,  David  turned  away 
defiantly  down  the  hill. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Schooltime  was  long  over; 
still  there  was  no  David. 

The  little  man  waited  at  the  door  of  the  Grange,  fuming, 
hopping  from  one  leg  to  the  other,  talking  to  Red  Wull, 
who  lay  at  his  feet,  his  head  on  his  paws,  like  a  tiger 
waiting  for  his  prey. 

At  length  he  could  restrain  himself  no  longer;  and 
started  running  down  the  hill,  his  heart  burning  with 
indignation. 

"Wait  till  we  lay  hands  on  ye,  ma  lad,"  he  muttered  as 
he  ran.     "We'll  warm  ye,  we'll  teach  ye." 

At  the  edge  of  the  Stony  Bottom,  he,  as  always,  left  Red 
Wull.  Crossing  it  himself,  and  rounding  Langholm  How, 
he  espied  James  Moore,  David,  and  Owd  Bob  walking 
away  from  him  and  in  the  direction  of  Kenmuir.  The 
gray  dog  and  David  were  playing  together,  wrestling, 
racing,  and  rolling.  The  boy  had  never  a  thought  for  his 
father. 

The  little  man  ran  up  behind  them,  unseen  and  unheard, 
his  feet  softly  pattering  on  the  grass.  His  hand  had  fallen 
on  David's  shoulder  before  the  boy  had  guessed  his 
approach. 

"Did  I  bid  ye  come  hame  after  school,  David?"  he 
asked,  concealing  his  heat  beneath  a  suspicious  suavity. 

"Maybe.     Did  I  say  I  would  come?" 

The  pertness  of  tone  and  words,  alike,  fanned  his  father's 
resentment  into  a  blaze.  In  a  burst  of  passion  he  lunged 
forward  at  the  boy  with  his  stick.  But  as  he  smote,  a  gray 
whirlwind  struck  him  fair  on  the  chest,  and  he  fell  like  a 


A  gray  figure,  seeming  to  spring  from  out  the  blue,  would  come 
fiercely,  silently  driving  down  on  his  foe. 


A  MAN'S  SON  47 

snapped  stake,  and  lay,  half  stunned,  with  a  dark  muzzle 
an  inch  from  his  throat. 

"Git  back,  Bob!"  shouted  James  Moore,  hurrying  up. 
"Git  back,  I  tell  yo'!"  He  bent  over  the  prostrate  figure, 
propping  it  up  anxiously.  "Are  yo'  hurt,  M'Adam?  Eh, 
but  I  am  sorry.  He  thought  yo'  were  goin'  for  to  strike 
the  lad." 

David  had  now  run  up,  and  he,  too,  bent  over  his  father 
with  a  very  scared  face. 

"Are  yo'  hurt,  feyther?"  he  asked,  his  voice  trembling. 

The  little  man  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  shook  off 
his  supporters.  His  face  was  twitching,  and  he  stood,  all 
dust-begrimed,  looking  at  his  son. 

"Ye're  content,  aiblins,  noo  ye've  seen  yer  father's  gray 
head  bowed  in  the  dust,"  he  said. 

"  'Twas  an  accident,"  pleaded  James  Moore.  "  But 
I  am  sorry.     He  thought  yo'  were  goin'  to  beat  the  lad." 

"So  I  was— so  I  will." 

"If  ony's  beat  it  should  be  ma  Bob  here  tho'  he  nob'but 
thought  he  was  doin'  right.     An'  yo'  were  aff  the  path." 

The  little  man  looked  at  his  enemy,  a  sneer  on  his  face. 

"Ye  canna  thrash  him  for  doin*  what  ye  bid  him.  Set 
yer  dog  on  me,  if  ye  will,  but  dinna  beat  him  when  he  does 
yerbiddin'!" 

"I  did  not  set  him  on  yo',  as  you  know,"  the  Master 
replied  warmly. 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'll  no  argie  wi'  ye,  James  Moore,"  he  said.  "I'll 
leave  you  and  what  ye  call  yer  conscience  to  settle  that. 
My  business  is  not  wi'  you. — David!"  turning  to  his  son. 

A  stranger  might  well  have  mistaken  the  identity  of  the 
boy's  father.    For  he  stood  now,  holding  the  Master** 


48  A  MAN'S  SON 

arm;  while  a  few  paces  above  them  was  the  little  man, 
pale  but  determined,  the  expression  on  his  face  betraying 
his  consciousness  of  the  irony  of  the  situation. 

"Will  ye  come  hame  wi'  me  and  have  it  noo,  or  stop  wi* 
him  and  wait  till  ye  get  it  ?"  he  asked  the  boy. 

"M'Adam,  I'd  like  yo'  to " 

"None  o'  that,  James  Moore, — David,  what  d'ye  say?" 

David  looked  up  into  his  protector's  face. 

"Yo'd  best  go  wi'  your  feyther,  lad,"  said  the  Master 
at  last,  thickly.  The  boy  hesitated,  and  clung  tighter  to 
the  shielding  arm;  then  he  walked  slowly  over  to  his 
father. 

A  bitter  smile  spread  over  the  little  man's  face  as  he 
marked  this  new  test  of  the  boy's  obedience  to  the  other. 

"To  obey  his  frien'  he  foregoes  the  pleasure  o'  disobeyin* 
his  father,"  he  muttered.  "Noble!"  Then  he  turned 
homeward,  and  the  boy  followed  in  his  footsteps. 

James  Moore  and  the  gray  dog  stood  looking  after  them. 

"I  know  yo'll  not  pay  off  yer  spite  agin  me  on  the  lad 's 
head,  M'Adam,"  he  called,  almost  appealingly. 

"I'll  do  ma  duty,  thank  ye,  James  Moore,  wi'oot 
respect  o'  persons,"  the  little  man  cried  back,  never 
turning. 

Father  and  son  walked  away,  one  behind  the  other, 
like  a  man  and  his  dog,  and  there  was  no  word  said 
between  them.  Across  the  Stony  Bottom,  Red  Wull, 
scowling  with  bared  teeth  at  David,  joined  them.  To- 
gether the  three  went  up  the  hill  to  the  Grange. 

In  the  kitchen  M'Adam  turned. 

"Noo,  I'm  gaein'  to  gie  ye  the  gran'est  thrashin'  ye  iver 
dreamed  of.     Tak'  affyer  coat!" 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  stood  up  in  his  thin  shirt,  his  face 


A  MAN'S  SON  49 

white  and  set  as  a  statue's.  Red  Wull  seated  himself  on 
his  haunches  close  by,  his  ears  pricked,  licking  his  lips,  all 
attention. 

The  little  man  suppled  the  great  ash-plant  in  his  hands 
and  raised  it.  But  the  expression  on  the  boy's  face 
arrested  his  arm. 

"Say  ye're  sorry  and  I'll  let  yer  aff  easy." 

"I'll  not." 

"One  mair  chance — yer  last!  Say  yer  'shamed  o 
yerself!" 

"I'm  not." 

The  little  man  brandished  his  cruel  white  weapon,  and 
Red  Wull  shifted  a  little  to  obtain  a  better  view. 

"Git  on  wi'  it,"  ordered  David  angrily. 

The  little  man  raised  the  stick  again  and — threw  it  intc 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 

It  fell  with  a  rattle  on  the  floor,  and  M'Adam  turned 
away. 

"Ye're  the  pitifulest  son  iver  a  man  had,"  he  cried 
brokenly.  "Gin  a  man's  son  dinna  haud  to  him,  wha  can 
he  expect  to  ? — no  one.  Ye  're  ondootiful,  ye're  disrespect- 
fu',  ye're  maist  ilka  thing  ye  shouldna  be;  there's  but  ae 
thing  I  thocht  ye  were  not — a  coward.  And  as  to  that, 
ye've  no  the  pluck  to  say  ye're  sorry  when,  God  knows, 
ye  might  be.  I  canna  thrash  ye  this  day.  But  ye  shall 
gae  nae  mair  to  school.  I  send  ye  there  to  learn.  Ye'll 
not  learn — ye've  learnt  naethin'  except  disobedience  to 
me — ye  shall  stop  at  hame  and  work." 

His  father's  rare  emotion,  his  broken  voice  and  working 
face,  moved  David  as  all  the  stripes  and  jeers  had  failed  to 
do.  His  conscience  smote  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  it  dimly  dawned  on  him  that,  perhaps,  his  father,  too, 


50 


A  MAN'S  SON 


had  some  ground  for  complaint;  that,  perhaps,  he  was  not 
a  good  son. 

He  half  turned. 

"Feyther " 

"Git  oot  o'  ma  sight  1"  M'Adam  cried. 

And  the  boy  turned  and  went. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   LICKING   OR   A   LIE 

THENCEFORWARD  David  buckled  down  to  work 
at  home,  and  in  one  point  only  father  and  son  re- 
sembled— industry.  A  drunkard  M'Adam  was^  but  a 
drone,  no. 

The  boy  worked  at  the  Grange  with  tireless,  indomitable 
energy;  yet  he  could  never  satisfy  his  father. 

The  little  man  would  stand,  a  sneer  on  his  face  and  his 
thin  lips  contemptuously  curled,  and  flout  the  lad's  brave 
labours. 

"Is  he  no  a  gran'  worker,  Wullie?  'Tis  a  pleasure  to 
watch  him,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  turned 
heavenward!"  as  the  boy  snatched  a  hard-earned  mo- 
ment's rest.  "You  and  I,  Wullie,  we'll  brak'  oorsel's 
slavin'  for  him  while  he  looks  on  and  lafFs." 

And  so  on,  the  whole  day  through,  week  in,  week  out; 
till  he  sickened  with  weariness  of  it  all. 

In  his  darkest  hours  David  thought  sometimes  to  run1 
away.  He  was  miserably  alone  on  the  cold  bosom  of  the! 
world.    The  very  fact  that  he  was  the  son  of  his  father. 

H 


52  A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE 

isolated  him  in  the  Daleland.  Naturally  of  a  reserved 
disposition,  he  had  no  single  friend  outside  Kenmuir. 
And  it  was  only  the  thought  of  his  friends  there  that 
withheld  him.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  part  from 
them;  they  were  ail  he  had  in  the  world. 

So  he  worked  on  at  the  Grange,  miserably,  doggedly, 
taking  blows  and  abuse  alike  in  burning  silence.  But 
every  evening,  when  work  was  ended,  he  stepped  off  to  his 
other  home  beyond  the  Stony  Bottom.  And  on  Sundays 
and  holidays — for  of  these  latter  he  took,  unasking,  what 
he  knew  to  be  his  due — all  day  long,  from  cock-crowing  to 
the  going  down  of  the  sun,  he  would  pass  at  Kenmuir.  In 
this  one  matter  the  boy  was  invincibly  stubborn.  Noth- 
ing his  father  could  say  or  do  sufficed  to  break  him  of  the 
habit.  He  endured  everything  with  white-lipped,  silent 
doggedness,  and  still  held  on  his  way. 

Once  past  the  Stony  Bottom,  he  threw  his  troubles 
behind  him  with  a  courage  that  did  him  honour.  Of  all  the 
people  at  Kenmuir  two  only  ever  dreamed  the  whole  depth 
of  his  unhappiness,  and  that  not  through  David.  James 
Moore  suspected  something  of  it  all,  for  he  knew  more  of 
M'Adam  than  did  the  others.  While  Owd  Bob  knew  it  as 
did  no  one  else.  He  could  tell  it  from  the  touch  of  the 
boy's  hand  on  his  head;  and  the  story  was  writ  large  upon 
his  face  for  a  dog  to  read.  And  he  would  follow  the  lad 
about  with  a  compassion  in  his  sad  gray  eyes  greater  than 
words. 

David  might  well  compare  his  gray  friend  at  Kenmuir 
with  that  other  at  the  Grange. 

The  Tailless  Tyke  had  now  grown  into  an  immense  dog 
heavy  of  muscle  and  huge  of  bone.  A  great  bull  head; 
undershot  jaw,  square  and  lengthy  and  terrible;  vicious, 


A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE  53 

yellow-gleaming  eyes;  cropped  ears;  and  an  expression 
incomparably  savage.  His  coat  was  a  tawny,  lion-like 
yellow,  short,  harsh,  dense;  and  his  back,  running  up  from 
shoulder  to  loins,  ended  abruptly  in  the  knob-like  tail. 
He  looked  like  the  devil  of  a  dogs'  hell.  And  his  repu- 
tation was  as  bad  as  his  looks.  He  never  attacked  un- 
provoked; but  a  challenge  was  never  ignored,  and  he  was 
greedy  of  insults.  Already  he  had  nigh  killed  Rob 
Saunderson's  collie,  Shep;  Jem  Burton's  Monkey  fled 
incontinently  at  the  sound  of  his  approach;  while  he  had 
even  fought  a  round  with  that  redoubtable  trio,  the  Vexer, 
Venus,  and  Van  Tromp. 

Nor,  in  the  matter  of  war,  did  he  confine  himself  to  his 
jwn  kind.  His  huge  strength  and  indomitable  courage 
made  him  the  match  of  almost  anything  that  moved. 
Long  Kirby  once  threatened  him  with  a  broomstick;  the 
smith  never  did  it  again.  While  in  the  Border  Ram  he 
attacked  Big  Bell,  the  Squire's  underkeeper,  with  such 
murderous  fury  that  it  took  all  the  men  in  the  room  to 
pull  him  off. 

More  than  once  had  he  and  Owa  Bob  essayed  to  wipe 
out  mutual  memories,  Red  Wull,  in  this  case  only,  the 
aggressor.  As  yet,  however,  while  they  fenced  a  moment 
for  that  deadly  throat-grip,  the  value  of  which  each  knew 
so  well,  James  Moore  had  always  seized  the  chance  to 
intervene. 

"That's  right,  hide  him  ahint  yer  petticoats,"  sneered 
M'Adam  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

"  Hide  ?  It'll  not  be  him  I'll  hide,  I  warn  you,  M'Adam,'' 
the  Master  answered  grimly,  as  he  stood,  twirling  his  good 
oak  stick  between  the  would-be  duellists.  Whereat  there 
was  a  loud  laugh  at  the  little  man's  expense. 


54  A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE 

It  seemed  as  if  there  were  to  be  other  points  of  rivalry 
between  the  two  than  memories.  For,  in  the  matter  of 
his  own  business — the  handling  of  sheep — Red  Wull  bid 
fair  to  be  second  only  throughout  the  Daleland  to  the  Gray 
Dog  of  Kenmuir.  And  M'Adam  was  patient  and  pafns- 
taking  in  the  training  of  his  Wullie  in  a  manner  to  astonish 
David.  It  would  have  been  touching,  had  it  not  been  so 
unnatural  in  view  of  his  treatment  of  his  own  blood,  to 
watch  the  tender  carefulness  with  which  the  little  man 
moulded  the  dog  beneath  his  hands.  After  a  promising 
display  he  would  stand,  rubbing  his  palms  together,  as 
near  content  as  ever  he  was. 

"  Weel  done,  Wullie !  Weel  done.  Bide  a  wee  and  we  'II 
show  'em  a  thing  or  two,  you  and  I,  Wullie. 

'"The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't.' 

For  it's  you  and  I  alane,  lad."  And  the  dog  would  trot 
up  to  him,  place  his  great  forepaws  on  his  shoulders,  and 
stand  thus  with  his  great  head  overtopping  his  master's, 
his  ears  back,  and  stump  tail  vibrating. 

You  saw  them  at  their  best  when  thus  together,  dis- 
playing each  his  one  soft  side  to  the  other. 

From  the  very  first  David  and  Red  Wull  were  open 
enemies:  under  the  circumstances,  indeed,  nothing  else 
was  possible.  Sometimes  the  great  dog  would  follow  on  the 
lad's  heels  with  surly,  greedy  eyes,  never  leaving  him  from 
sunrise  to  sundown,  till  David  could  hardly  hold  his  hands. 

So  matters  went  on  for  a  never-ending  year.  Then 
there  came  a  climax. 

One  evening,  on  a  day  throughout  which  Red  Wull  had 
dogged  him  thus  hungrily,  David,  his  work  finished,  went 


A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE  55 

to  pick  up  his  Coat,  which  he  had  left  hard  by.  On  it  lay 
Red  Wull. 

"Git  off  ma  coat!"  the  boy  ordered  angrily,  marching 
up.  But  the  great  dog  never  stirred:  he  lifted  a  lip  to 
show  a  fence  of  white,  even  teeth,  and  seemed  to  sink 
lower  in  the  ground;  his  head  on  his  paws,  his  eyes  in  his 
forehead. 

"Come  and  take  it!"  he  seemed  to  say. 

Now  what,  between  master  and  dog,  David  had  endured 
almost  more  than  he  could  bear  that  day. 

"Yo'  won't,  won't  yo',  girt  brute!"  he  shouted,  and 
bending,  snatched  a  corner  of  the  coat  and  attempted  to 
jerk  it  away.  At  that,  Red  Wull  rose,  shivering,  to  his 
feet,  and  with  a  low  gurgle  sprang  at  the  boy. 

David,  quick  as  a  flash,  dodged,  bent,  and  picked  up  ar. 
ugly  stake,  lying  at  his  feet.  Swinging  round,  all  in  a 
moment,  he  dealt  his  antagonist  a  mighty  buffet  on  the 
side  of  the  head.  Dazed  with  the  blow,  the  great  dog  fell; 
then,  recovering  himself,  with  a  terrible,  deep  roar  he 
sprang  again.  Then  it  must  have  gone  hard  with  the  boy, 
fine-grown,  muscular  young  giant  though  he  was.  For 
Red  Wull  was  now  in  the  first  bloom  of  that  great  strength 
which  earned  him  afterward  an  undying  notoriety  in  the 
land. 

As  it  chanced,  however,  M'Adam  had  watched  the 
scene  from  the  kitchen.  And  now  he  came  hurrying  out 
of  the  house,  shrieking  commands  and  curses  at  the 
combatants.  As  Red  Wull  sprang,  he  interposed  between 
the  two,  head  back  and  eyes  flashing.  His  small  person 
received  the  full  shock  of  the  charge.  He  staggered,  but 
recovered,  and  in  an  imperative  voice  ordered  the  dog  to 
heel. 


56  A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE 

Then  he  turned  on  David,  seized  the  stake  from  his 
hand,  and  began  furiously  belabouring  the  boy. 

"I'll  teach  ye  to  strike — a  puir — dumb — harmless — 
creetur,  ye — cruel — cruel — lad!"  he  cried.  "Hoo  daur 
ye  strike — ma — Wullie?  yer — father's — Wullie?  Adam — > 
M' Adam's — Red  Wull?"  He  was  panting  from  his  exer- 
tions, and  his  eyes  were  blazing.  "I  pit  up  as  best  I  can 
wi'  all  manner  o'  disrespect  to  masel';  but  when  it  comes 
to  takin'  ma  puir  Wullie,  I  canna  thole  it.  Ha'  ye  no 
heart?"  he  asked,  unconscious  of  the  irony  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

"As  much  as  some,  I  reck'n,"  David  muttered. 

"Eh,  what's  that?     What  d'ye  say?" 

"Ye  may  thrash  me  till  ye're  blind;  and  it's  nob'but  yer 
duty;  but  if  only  one  daurs  so  much  as  to  look  at  yer 
Wullie  ye're  mad,"  the  boy  answered  bitterly.  And  with 
that  he  turned  away  defiantly  and  openly  in  the  direction 
of  Kenmuir. 

M'Adam  made  a  step  forward,  and  then  stopped. 

"I'll  see  ye  agin,  ma  lad,  this  evenin',"  he  cried  with 
cruel  significance. 

"I  doot  but  yo'll  be  too  drunk  to  see  owt — except, 
'appen,  your  bottle,"  the  boy  shouted  back;  and  swag- 
gered down  the  hill. 

At  Kenmuir  that  night  the  marked  and  particular 
kindness  of  Elizabeth  Moore  was  too  much  for  the  over- 
strung lad.  Overcome  by  the  contrast  of  her  sweet 
motherliness,  he  burst  into  a  storm  of  invective  against  his 
father,  his  home,  his  life — everything. 

"Don't  'ee,  Davie,  don't  'ee,  dearie!"  cried  Mrs.  Moore, 
much  distressed.     And  taking  him  to  her  she  talked  to  the 


A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE  57 

great,  sobbing  boy  as  though  he  were  a  ch'iicL  At  length 
he  lifted  his  face  and  looked  up;  and,  seeing  the  white,  wan 
countenance  of  his  dear  comforter,  was  struck  with  tendei 
remorse  that  he  had  given  way  and  pained  her,  who  looked 
so  frail  and  thin  herself. 

He  mastered  himself  with  an  effort;  and,  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening,  was  his  usual  cheery  self.  He  teased  Maggie 
into  tears;  chaffed  stolid  little  Andrew;  and  bantered 
Sam'l  Todd  until  that  generally  impassive  man  threatened 
to  bash  his  snout  for  him. 

Yet  it  was  with  a  great  swallowing  at  his  throat  that, 
later,  he  turned  down  the  slope  for  home. 

James  Moore  and  Parson  Leggy  accompanied  him  to  the 
bridge  over  the  Wastrel,  and  stood  a  while  watching  as 
he  disappeared  into  the  summer  night. 

"Yon's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  Master  half  to  himself. 

"Yes,"  the  parson  replied;  "I  always  thought  there 
was  good  in  the  boy,  if  only  his  father'd  give  him  a  chance. 
And  look  at  the  way  Owd  Bob  there  follows  him.  There's 
not  another  soul  outside  Kenmuir  he'd  do  that  for." 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  the  Master.  "Bob  knows  a  mon  when 
he  sees  one." 

"He  does,"  acquiesced  the  other.  "And  by  the  by, 
James,  the  talk  in  the  village  is  that  you've  settled  not  tc 
run  him  for  the  Cup.     Is  that  so  ?" 

The  Master  nodded. 

"It  is,  sir.  They're  all  mad  I  should,  but  I  mun  cross 
'em.  They  say  he's  reached  his  prime — and  so  he  has  o' 
his  body,  but  not  o'  his  brain.  And  a  sheep-dog — unlike 
other  dogs — is  not  at  his  best  till  his  brain  is  at  its  best — 
and  that  takes  a  while  developing  same  as  in  a  mon,  I 
reck'n." 


58  A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  parson,  pulling  out  a  favourite 
phrase,  "waiting's  winning — waiting's  winning." 

David  slipped  up  into  his  room  and  into  bed  unseen,  he 
hoped.  Alone  with  the  darkness,  he  allowed  himself  the 
rare  relief  of  tears;  and  at  length  fell  asleep.  He  awoke  to 
find  his  father  standing  at  his  bedside.  The  little  man 
held  a  feeble  dip-candle  in  his  hand,  which  lit  his  sallow 
face  in  crude  black  and  white.  In  the  doorway,  dimly 
outlined,  was  the  great  figure  of  Red  Wull. 

"Whaur  ha'  ye  been  the  day?"  the  little  man  asked. 
Then,  looking  down  on  the  white  stained  face  beneath  him, 
he  added  hurriedly:  "If  ye  like  to  lie,  I'll  believe  ye." 

David  was  out  of  bed  and  standing  up  in  his  night-shirt. 
He  looked  at  his  father  contemptuously. 

"I  ha'  bin  at  Kenmuir.  I'll  not  lie  for  yo'  or  your 
likes,"  he  said  proudly. 

The  little  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"'Tell  a  lee  and  stick  to  it,'  is  my  rule,  and  a  good  one 
too,  in  honest  England.  I  for  one  '11  no  think  ony  the 
worse  o'  ye  if  yer  memory  plays  yer  false." 

"D'yo'  think  I  care  a  kick  what  yo'  think  o'  me?"  the 
boy  asked  brutally.  "Nay;  there's  'nough  liars  in  this 
fam'ly  wi'oot  me." 

The  candle  trembled  and  was  still  agaim 

"A  lickin'  or  a  lie — tak'  yer  choice!" 

The  boy  looked  scornfully  down  on  his  father.  Stand- 
ing on  his  naked  feet,  he  already  towered  half  a  head 
above  the  other  and  was  twice  the  man. 

"D'yo'  think  I'm  fear'd  o'  a  thrashin'  fra  yo'?  Goo* 
gracious  me!"  he  sneered.  "Why,  I'd  as  lief  let  owd 
Grammer  Maddox  lick  me,  for  all  I  care." 


A  LICKING  OR  A  LIE  59 

A  reference  to  his  physical  insufficiencies  fired  the  little 
man  as  surely  as  a  lighted  match  powder. 

"Ye  maun  be  cauld,  standin'  there  so.  Rin  ye  doon 
and  fetch  oor  little  frien'" — a  reference  to  a  certain  strap 
hanging  in  the  kitchen.     "I'll  see  if  I  can  warm  ye." 

David  turned  and  stumbled  down  the  unlit,  narrow 
stairs.  The  hard,  cold  boards  struck  like  death  against 
his  naked  feet.  At  his  heels  followed  Red  Wull,  his  hot 
breath  fanning  the  boy's  bare  legs. 

So  into  the  kitchen  and  back  up  the  stairs,  and  Red  Wull 
always  following. 

"I'll  no  despair  yet  o'  teachin'  ye  the  fifth  command- 
ment, though  I  kill  masel'  in  doin'  it!"  cried  the  little 
man,  seizing  the  strap  from  the  boy's  numb  grasp. 

When  it  was  over,  M'Adam  turned,  breathless,  away. 
At  the  threshold  of  the  room  he  stopped  and  looked  round : 
a  little,  dim-lit,  devilish  figure,  framed  in  the  door;  while 
from  the  blackness  behind,  Red  Wull's  eyes  gleamed 
yellow. 

Glancing  back,  the  little  man  caught  such  an  expression 
on  David's  face  that  for  once  he  was  fairly  afraid.  He 
banged  the  door  and  hobbled  actively  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   WHITE   WINTER 


M'ADAM — in  his  sober  moments  at  least — never 
touched  David  again;  instead,  he  devoted  himself 
to  the  more  congenial  exercise  of  the  whiplash  of  his  tongue. 
And  he  was  wise;  for  David,  who  was  already  nigh  a  head 
the  taller  of  the  two,  and  comely  and  strong  in  proportion, 
could,  if  he  would,  have  taken  his  father  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand  and  crumpled  him  like  a  dry  leaf.  Moreover, 
with  his  tongue,  at  least,  the  little  man  enjoyed  the  noble 
pleasure  of  making  the  boy  wince.  And  so  the  war  was 
carried  on  none  the  less  vindictively. 

Meanwhile  another  summer  was  passing  away,  and 
every  day  brought  fresh  proofs  of  the  prowess  of  Owd  Bob. 
Tammas,  whose  stock  of  yarns  anent  Rex  son  of  Rally  had 
after  forty  years'  hard  wear  begun  to  pall  on  the  loyal 
ears  of  even  old  Jonas,  found  no  lack  of  new  material  now. 
In  the  Dalesman's  Daughter  in  Silverdale  and  in  the 
Border  Ram  at  Grammoch-town*  each  succeeding  market 

60 


THE  WHITE  WINTER  61 

day  brought  some  fresh  tale.  Men  told  how  the  gray  dog 
had  outdone  Gypsy  Jack,  the  sheep-sneak;  how  he  had 
cut  out  a  Kenmuir  shearling  from  the  very  centre  of 
Londesley's  pack;  and  a  thousand  like  stories. 

The  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir  have  always  been  equally 
heroes  and  favourites  in  the  Daleland.  And  the  confidence 
of  the  Dalesmen  in  Owd  Bob  was  now  invincible.  Some- 
times on  market  days  he  would  execute  some  unaccount- 
able maneuver,  and  a  strange  shepherd  would  ask: 
"What's  the  gray  dog  at?"  To  which  the  nearest  Dales- 
man would  reply:  "Nay,  I  canno  tell  ye!  But  he's  reet 
enough.     Yon's  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir." 

Whereon  the  stranger  would  prick  his  ears  and  watch 
with  close  attention. 

"Yon's  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  is  he?"  he  would  say; 
for  already  among  the  faculty  the  name  was  becoming 
known.  And  never  in  such  a  case  did  the  young  dog  fail 
to  justify  the  faith  of  his  supporters. 

It  came,  therefore,  as  a  keen  disappointment  to  every 
Dalesman,  from  Herbert  Trotter,  Secretary  of  the  Trials, 
to  little  Billy  Thornton,  when  the  Master  persisted  in  his 
decision  not  to  run  the  dog  for  the  Cup  in  the  approaching 
Dale  Trials;  and  that  though  parson,  squire,  and  even 
Lady  Eleanour  essayed  to  shake  his  purpose.  It  was 
nigh  fifty  years  since  Rex  son  0'  Rally  had  won  back  the 
Trophy  for  the  land  that  gave  it  birth;  it  was  time,  they 
thought,  for  a  Daleland  dog,  a  Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir — 
the  terms  are  practically  synonymous — to  bring  it  home 
again.  And  Tammas,  that  polished  phrase-maker,  was 
only  expressing  the  feelings  of  every  Dalesman  in  the  room 
when,  one  night  at  the  Arms,  he  declared  of  Owd  Bob  that 
"to  ha'  run  was  to  ha*  won."    At  which  M'Adam  snig-v 


62  THE  WHITE  WINTER 

gered  audibly  and  winked  at  Red  Wull.  "To  ha'  run  was 
to  ha'  one — lickin';  to  rin  next  year'll  be  to " 

"Win  next  year,"  Tammas  interposed  dogmatically. 
"Onless" — with  shivering  sarcasm — "you  and  yer  Wullie 
are  thinkin'  o'  winnin'." 

The  little  man  rose  from  his  solitary  seat  at  the  back  of 
the  room  and  pattered  across. 

"Wullie  and  I  are  thinkin'  o'  t,"  he  whispered  loudly 
in  the  old  man's  ear.  "And  mair:  what  Adam  M'Adam 
and  his  Red  Wull  think  o'  doin',  that,  ye  may  remairk, 
Mr.  Thornton,  they  do.  Next  year  we  rin,  and  next 
year — we  win.  Come,  Wullie,  we'll  leave  'em  to  chew 
that";  and  he  marched  out  of  the  room  amid  the  jeers  of 
the  assembled  topers.  When  quiet  was  restored,  it  was 
Jim  Mason  who  declared:  "One  thing  certain,  win  or  no, 
they'll  not  be  far  off." 


Meanwhile  the  summer  ended  abruptly.  Hard  on  the 
heels  of  a  sweltering  autumn  the  winter  came  down.  In 
that  year  the  Daleland  assumed  very  early  its  white  cloak. 
The  Silver  Mere  was  soon  ice-veiled;  the  Wastrel  rolled 
sullenly  down  below  Kenmuir,  its  creeks  and  quiet  places 
tented  with  jagged  sheets  of  ice;  while  the  Scaur  and 
Muir  Pike  raised  hoary  heads  against  the  frosty  blue.  It 
was  the  season  still  remembered  in  the  North  as  the 
White  Winter — the  worst,  they  say,  since  the  famous  1808. 

For  days  together  Jim  Mason  was  stuck  with  his  bags 
in  the  Dalesman's  Daughter,  and  there  was  no  communi- 
cation between  the  two  Dales.  On  the  Mere  Marches  the 
snow  massed  deep  and  impassable  in  thick,  billowy  drifts. 
In  the  Devil's  Bowl  men  said  it  lay  piled  some  score  feet 


During  the  terrible  White  Winter,  sheep  were  buried  and  lost  in 
their  hundreds. 


THE  WHITE  WINTER  63 

deep.  And  sheep,  seeking  shelter  in  the  ghylls  and  pro- 
tected spots,  were  buried  and  lost  in  their  hundreds. 

That  is  the  time  to  test  the  hearts  of  shepherds  and 
sheep-dogs,  when  the  wind  runs  ice-cold  across  the  waste 
of  white,  and  the  low  woods  on  the  upland  walks  shiver 
black  through  a  veil  of  snow,  and  sheep  must  be  found  and 
folded  or  lost:  a  trial  of  head  as  well  as  heart,  of  resource 
as  well  as  resolution. 

In  that  winter  more  than  one  man  and  many  a  dog  lost 
his  life  in  the  quiet  performance  of  his  duty,  gliding  to 
death  over  the  slippery  snow-shelves,  or  overwhelmed 
beneath  an  avalanche  of  the  warm,  suffocating  white: 
"smoored,"  as  they  call  it.  Many  a  deed  was  done,  many 
a  death  died,  recorded  only  in  that  Book  which  holds  the 
names  of  those — men  or  animals,  souls  or  no  souls — who 
Tried. 

They  found  old  Wrottesley,  the  squire's  head  shepherd, 
lying  one  morning  at  Gill's  foot,  like  a  statue  in  its  white 
bed,  the  snow  gently  blowing  about  the  venerable  face, 
calm  and  beautiful  in  death.  And  stretched  upon  his 
bosom,  her  master's  hands  blue,  and  stiff,  still  clasped 
about  her  neck,  his  old  dog  Jess.  She  had  huddled  there, 
as  a  last  hope,  to  keep  the  dear,  dead  master  warm,  her 
great  heart  riven,  hoping  where  there  was  no  hope. 

That  night  she  followed  him  to  herd  sheep  in  a  better 
land.  Death  from  exposure,  Dingley,  the  vet.,  gave  it; 
but  as  little  M'Adam,  his  eyes  dimmer  than  their  wont, 
declared  huskily;  "We  ken  better,  Wullie." 

Cyril  Gilbraith,  a  young  man  not  overburdened  with 
emotions,  told  with  a  sob  in  his  voice  how,  at  the  terrible 
Rowan  Rock,  Jim  Mason  had  stood,  impotent,  dumb, 
big-eyed,  watching  Betsy — Betsy,  the  friend  and  partner 


64  THE  WHITE  WINTER 

of  the  last  ten  years — slipping  over  the  ice-cold  surface, 
silently  appealing  to  the  hand  that  had  never  failed  her 
before — sliding  to  Eternity. 

In  the  Daleland  that  winter  the  endurance  of  many  a 
shepherd  and  his  dog  was  strained  past  breaking-point. 
From  the  frozen  Black  Water  to  the  white-peaked  Gram- 
moch  Pike  two  men  only,  each  always  with  his  shaggy 
adjutant,  never  owned  defeat;  never  turned  back;  never 
failed  in  a  thing  attempted. 

In  the  following  spring,  Mr.  Tinkerton,  the  squire's 
agent,  declared  that  James  Moore  and  Adam  M'Adam — ■ 
Owd  Bob,  rather,  and  Red  Wull — had  lost  between  them 
fewer  sheep  than  any  single  farmer  on  the  whole  March 
Mere  Estate — a  proud  record. 

Of  the  two,  many  a  tale  was  told  that  winter.  They 
were  invincible,  incomparable;  worthy  antagonists. 

It  was  Owd  Bob  who,  when  he  could  not  drive  the  band 
of  Black  Faces  over  the  narrow  Razorback  which  led  to 
safety,  induced  them  to  follow  him  across  that  ten-inch 
death-track,  one  by  one,  like  children  behind  their 
mistress.  It  was  Red  Wull  who  was  seen  coming  down  the 
precipitous  Saddler's  How,  shouldering  up  that  grand  old 
gentleman,  King  o'  the  Dale,  whose  leg  was  broken. 

The  gray  dog  it  was  who  found  Cyril  Gilbraith  by  the 
White  Stones,  with  a  cigarette  and  a  sprained  ankle,  on 
the  night  the  whole  village  was  out  with  lanterns  searching 
for  the  well-loved  young  scapegrace.  It  was  the  Tailless 
Tyke  and  his  master  who  one  bitter  evening  came  upon 
little  Mrs.  Burton,  lying  in  a  huddle  beneath  the  lea  of  the 
fast-whitening  Druid's  Pillar  with  her  latest  baby  on  her 
breast.  It  was  little  M'Adam  who  took  off  his  coat  and 
trapped  the  child  in  it;  little  M'Adam  who  unwound  his 


THE  WHITE  WINTER  65 

plaid,  threw  it  like  a  breastband  across  the  dog's  great 
chest,  and  tied  the  ends  round  the  weary  woman's  waist. 
Red  Wull  it  was  who  dragged  her  back  to  the  Sylvester 
Arms  and  life,  straining  like  a  giant  through  the  snow, 
while  his  master  staggered  behind  with  the  babe  in  his 
arms.  When  they  reached  the  inn  it  was  M'Adam  who, 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  told  the  landlord  what  he  thought 
of  him  for  sending  his  wife  across  the  Marches  on  such  a 
day  and  on  his  errand.  To  which:  "I'd  a  cauld," 
pleaded  honest  Jem. 

For  days  together  David  could  not  cross  the  Stony 
Bottom  to  Kenmuir.  His  enforced  confinement  to  the 
Grange  led,  however,  to  no  more  frequent  collisions  thao 
usual  with  his  father.  For  M'Adam  and  Red  Wull  were 
out  at  all  hours,  in  all  weathers,  night  and  day,  toiling  at 
their  work  of  salvation. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  David  managed  to  cross  the 
Bottom  at  a  point  where  a  fallen  thorn-tree  gave  him  a 
bridge  over  the  soft  snow.  He  stayed  but  a  little  while  at 
Kenmuir,  yet  when  he  started  for  home  it  was  snowing 
again. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  ice-draped  bridge  over 
the  Wastrel,  a  blizzard  was  raging.  The  wind  roared 
past  him,  smiting  him  so  that  he  could  barely  stand;  and 
the  snow  leaped  at  him  so  that  he  could  not  see.  But  he 
held  on  doggedly;  slipping,  sliding,  tripping,  down  and  up 
again,  with  one  arm  shielding  his  face.  On,  on,  into  the 
white  darkness,  blindly  on  sobbing,  stumbling,  dazed. 

At  length,  nigh  dead,  he  reached  the  brink  of  the 
Stony  Bottom.  He  looked  up  and  he  looked  down,  but 
nowhere  in  that  blinding  mist  could  he  see  the  fallen 
thorn-tree.     He  took  a  step  forward  into  the  white  morass, 


66  THE  WHITE  WINTER 

and  sank  up  to  his  thigh.  He  struggled  feebly  to  fre* 
himself,  and  sank  deeper.  The  snow  wreathed,  twisting, 
round  him  like  a  white  flame,  and  he  collapsed,  softly 
crying  on  that  soft  bed. 

"I  canna — I  canna!"  he  moaned. 

Little  Mrs.  Moore,  her  face  whiter  and  frailer  than  ever, 
stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  storm. 

"I  canna  rest  for  thinkin'  o'  th'  lad,"  she  said.  Then, 
turning,  she  saw  her  husband,  his  fur  cap  down  over  his 
ears,  buttoning  his  pilot-coat  about  his  throat,  while  Owd 
Bob  stood  at  his  feet,  waiting. 

"Ye're  no  goin',  James?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"But  I  am,  lass,"  he  answered;  and  she  knew  him  too 
well  to  say  more. 

So  those  two  went  quietly  out  to  save  life  or  lose  it,  nor 
counted  the  cost. 

Down  a  wind-shattered  slope — over  a  spar  of  ice — up  an 
eternal  hill — a  forlorn  hope. 

In  a  whirlwind  chaos  of  snow,  the  tempest  storming  at 
them,  the  white  earth  lashing  them,  they  fought  a  good 
fight.  In  front,  Owd  Bob,  the  snow  clogging  his  shaggy 
coat,  his  hair  cutting  like  lashes  of  steel  across  eyes,  his 
head  lowered  as  he  followed  the  finger  of  God;  and  close 
behind,  James  Moore,  his  back  stern  against  the  storm, 
stalwart  still,  yet  swaying  like  a  tree  before  the  wind. 

So  they  battled  through  to  the  brink  of  the  Stony 
Bottom — only  to  arrive  too  late. 

For,  just  as  the  Master  peering  about  him,  had  caught 
sight  of  a  shapeless  lump  lying  motionless  in  front,  there 
loomed  across  the  snow-choked  gulf  through  the  white 
?iot  of  the  storm  a  gigantic  figure  forging,  doggedly  forward, 


THE  WHITE  WINTER  67 

his  great  head  down  to  meet  the  hurricane.  And  close 
behind,  buffeted  and  bruised,  stiff  and  staggering,  a  little 
dauntless  figure  holding  stubbornly  on,  clutching  with  one 
hand  at  the  gale;  and  a  shrill  voice,  whirled  away  on  the 
trumpet  tones  of  the  wind,  crying: 
"Noo,  Wullie,  wi'  me! 

"'Scots  wha'  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled! 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  often  led! 
Welcome  to — : — !' 

Here  he  is,  Wullie! 

"' — or  to  victorie!" 

The  brave  little  voice  died  away.  The  quest  was  over; 
the  lost  sheep  found.  And  the  last  James  Moore  saw  of 
them  was  the  same  small,  gallant  form,  half  carrying,  half 
dragging  the  rescued  boy  out  of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
and  away. 

David  was  none  the  worse  for  his  adventure,  for  on 
reaching  home  M  'Adam  produced  a  familiar  bottle. 

"Here's  something  to  warm  yer  inside,  and" — making  a 
feint  at  the  strap  on  the  wall — "here's  something  to  do  the 
same  by  yer But,  Wullie,  oot  again!" 

And  out  they  went — unreckoned  heroes. 

It  was  but  a  week  later,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  bitter 
time,  that  there  came  a  day  when,  from  gray  dawn  to 
grayer  eve,  neither  James  Moore  nor  Owd  Bob  stirred  out 
into  the  wintry  white.  And  the  Master's  face  was  hard 
and  set  as  it  always  was  in  time  of  trouble. 

Outside,  the  wind  screamed  down  the  Dale;  while  the 
snow  fell  relentlessly;  softly  fingering  the  windows, 
blocking  the  doors,  and  piling  deep  against  the  walls. 


68  THE  WHITE  WINTER 

Inside  the  house  there  was  a  strange  quiet;  no  sound  save 
for  hushed  voices,  and  upstairs  the  shuffling  of  muffled  feet. 

Below,  all  day  long,  Owd  Bob  patrolled  the  passage  like 
some  silent,  gray  spectre. 

Once  there  came  a  low  knocking  at  the  door;  and  David, 
his  face  and  hair  and  cap  smothered  in  the  all-pervading 
white,  came  in  with  an  eddy  of  snow.  He  patted  Owd 
Bob,  and  moved  on  tiptoe  into  the  kitchen.  To  him  came 
Maggie  softly,  shoes  in  hand,  with  white,  frightened  face. 
The  two  whispered  anxiously  awhile  like  brother  and 
sister  as  they  were;  then  the  boy  crept  quietly  away; 
only  a  little  pool  of  water  on  the  floor  and  wet,  treacherous 
foot-dabs  toward  the  door  testifying  to  the  visitor. 

Toward  evening  the  wind  died  down,  but  the  mourning 
flakes  still  fell. 

With  the  darkening  of  night  Owd  Bob  retreated  to  the 
porch  and  lay  down  on  his  blanket.  The  light  from  the 
lamp  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  shone  through  the  crack  of 
open  door  on  his  dark  head  and  the  eyes  that  never  slept. 

The  hours  passed,  and  the  gray  knight  still  kept  his 
vigil.  Alone  in  the  darkness — alone,  it  almost  seemed, 
in  the  house — he  watched.  His  head  lay  motionless 
along  his  paws,  but  the  steady  gray  eyes  never  flinched 
or  drooped. 

Time  tramped  on  on  leaden  foot,  and  still  he  waited; 
and  ever  the  pain  of  hovering  anxiety  was  stamped  deeper 
in  the  gray  eyes. 

At  length  it  grew  past  bearing;  the  hollow  stillness  of 
the  house  overcame  him.  He  rose,  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  softly  pattered  across  the  passage. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  halted,  his  forepaws  on  the 
first  step,  his  grave  face  and  pleading  eyes  uplifted,  as 


THE  WHITE  WINTER  69 

though  he  were  praying.  The  dim  light  fell  on  the  raised 
head;  and  the  white  escutcheon  on  his  breast  shone  out 
like  the  snow  on  Salmon. 

At  length,  with  a  sound  like  a  sob,  he  dropped  to  the 
ground,  and  stood  listening,  his  tail  dropping  and  head 
raised.  Then  he  turned  and  began  softly  pacing  up  and 
down,  like  some  velvet-footed  sentinel  at  the  gate  of  death. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  softly  as  the  falling  snow, 
for  a  weary,  weary  while. 

Again  he  stopped  and  stood,  listening  intently,  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs;  and  his  gray  coat  quivered  as  though 
there  were  a  draught. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  deathly  stillness  of  the  house  was 
broken.  Upstairs,  feet  were  running  hurriedly.  There 
was  a  cry,  and  again  silence. 

A  life  was  coming  in;  a  life  was  going  out. 

The  minutes  passed;  hours  passed;  and,  at  the  sunless 
dawn,  a  life  passed. 

And  all  through  that  night  of  age-long  agony  the  gray 
figure  stood,  still  as  a  statue,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
Only,  when,  with  the  first  chill  breath  of  the  morning,  a 
dry,  quick-quenched  sob  of  a  strong  man  sorrowing  for  the 
helpmeet  of  a  score  of  years,  and  a  tiny  cry  of  a  new-born 
child  wailing  because  its  mother  was  not,  came  down  to  his 
ears,  the  Gray  Watchman  dropped  his  head  upon  his 
bosom,  and,  with  a  little  whimpering  note,  crept  back  to 
his  blanket. 

A  little  later  the  door  above  opened,  and  James  Moore 
tramped  down  the  stairs.  He  looked  taller  and  gaunter 
than  his  wont,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  emotion  on  his 
face. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Owd  Bob  stole  out  to  meet  him. 


7o  THE  WHITE  WINTER 

He  came  crouching  up,  head  and  tail  down,  in  a  manner 
no  man  ever  saw  before  or  since.  At  his  master's  feet  he 
stopped  and  whined  pitifully. 

Then,  for  one  short  moment,  James  Moore's  whole  face 
quivered. 

"Well,  lad,"  he  said,  quite  low,  and  his  voice  broke; 
"she's  awa'!" 

That  was  all;  for  they  were  an  undemonstrative  couple. 

Then  they  turned  and  went  out  together  into  the  bleak 
morning. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


M  ADAM  AND  HIS   COAT 

TO  David  M  'Adam  the  loss  of  gentle  Elizabeth  Moore 
was  as  real  a  grief  as  to  her  children.  Yet  he  man- 
fully smothered  his  own  aching  heart  and  devoted  him- 
self to  comforting  the  mourners  at  Kenmuir. 

In  the  days  succeeding  Mrs.  Moore's  death  the  boy 
recklessly  neglected  his  duties  at  the  Grange.  But  little 
M'Adam  forbore  to  rebuke  him.  At  times,  indeed,  he 
essayed  to  be  passively  kind.  David,  however,  was  too 
deeply  sunk  in  his  great  sorrow  to  note  the  change. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  came.  The  earth  was  throwing 
off  its  ice-fetters;  and  the  Dale  was  lost  in  a  mourning  mist. 

In  the  afternoon  M'Adam  was  standing  at  the  window 
of  the  kitchen,  contemplating  the  infinite  weariness  of  the 
scene,  when  the  door  of  the  house  opened  and  shut 
noiselessly.  Red  Wull  raised  himself  on  to  the  sill  and 
growled,  and  David  hurried  past  the  window  making  for 
Kenmuir.     M'Adam  watched  the  passing  figure  indiffer- 


72  M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT 

ently;  then  with  an  angry  oath  sprang  to  the  window. 
"Bring  me  back  that  coat,  ye  thief!"  he  cried,  tapping 
fiercely  on  the  pane.  "Tak'  it  off  at  onst,  ye  muckle 
gowk,  or  I'll  come  and  tear  it  aff  ye.  D'ye  see  him, 
Wullie?  the  great  coof  has  ma  coat — me  black  coat,  new 
last  Michaelmas,  and  it  rainin'  'nough  to  melt  it." 

He  threw  the  window  up  with  a  bang  and  leaned  out. 

"Bring  it  back,  I  tell  ye,  ondootiful,  or  I'll  summons  ye. 
Though  ye've  no  respect  for  me,  ye  might  have  for  ma 
claithes.  Ye're  too  big  for  yer  ain  boots,  let  alane  ma 
coat.  D'ye  think  I  had  it  cut  for  a  elephant?  It's 
burstin',  I  tell  ye.  Tak'  it  aff!  Fetch  it  here,  or  I'll 
e'en  send  Wullie  to  bring  it!" 

David  paid  no  heed  except  to  begin  running  heavily 
down  the  hill.  The  coat  was  stretched  in  wrinkled  agony 
across  his  back;  his  big,  red  wrists  protruded  like  shank- 
bones  from  the  sleeves;  and  the  little  tails  flapped  wearily 
in  vain  attempts  to  reach  the  wearer's  legs. 

M'Adam,  bubbling  over  with  indignation,  scrambled 
half  through  the  open  window.  Then,  tickled  at  the 
amazing  impudence  of  the  thing,  he  paused,  smiled, 
dropped  to  the  ground  again,  and  watched  the  uncouth, 
retreating  figure  with  chuckling  amusement. 

"Did  ye  ever  see  the  like  o'  that,  Wullie?"  he  muttered. 
"Ma  puir  coat — puir  wee  coatie!  it  gars  me  greet  to  see 
her  in  her  pain.  A  man's  coat,  Wullie,  is  aften  unco  sma' 
for  his  son's  back;  and  David  there  is  strainin'  and 
stretchin'  her  nigh  to  brakin',  for  a'  the  world  as  he  does 
ma  forbearance.  And  what's  he  care  aboot  the  one  or 
t'ither? — not  a  finger-flip." 

As  he  stood  watching  the  disappearing  figure  there  began 
the  slow  tolling  of  the  minute-bell  in  the  little  Dale  church. 


M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT  73 

Now  near,  now  far,  now  loud,  now  low,  its  dull  chant  rang 
out  through  the  mist  like  the  slow-dropping  tears  of  a 
mourning  world. 

M'Adam  listened,  almost  reverently,  as  the  bell  tolled 
on,  the  only  sound  in  the  quiet  Dale.  Outside,  a  drizzling 
rain  was  falling;  the  snow  dribbled  down  the  hill  in  muddj 
tricklets  and  trees  and  roofs  and  windows  dripped. 

And  still  the  bell  tolled  on,  calling  up  relentlessly  sad 
memories  of  the  long  ago. 

It  was  on  just  such  another  dreary  day,  in  just  such 
another  December,  and  not  so  many  years  gone  by,  that 
the  light  had  gone  forever  out  of  his  life. 

The  whole  picture  rose  as  instant  to  his  eyes  as  if  it  had 
been  but  yesterday.  That  insistent  bell  brought  the 
scene  surging  back  to  him:  the  dismal  day;  the  drizzle; 
the  few  mourners;  little  David  decked  out  in  black,  his 
fair  hair  contrasting  with  his  gloomy  clothes,  his  face 
swollen  with  weeping;  the  Dale  hushed,  it  seemed  in 
death,  save  for  the  tolling  of  the  bell;  and  his  love  had  left 
him  and  gone  to  the  happy  land  the  hymn-books  talk  of. 
"Red  Wull,  who  had  been  watching  him  uneasily,  now 
came  up  and  shoved  his  muzzle  into  his  master's  hand. 
The  cold  touch  brought  the  little  man  back  to  earth.  He 
shook  himself,  turned  wearily  away  from  the  window,  and 
went  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

He  stood  there  looking  out;  and  all  round  him  was  the 
eternal  drip,  drip  of  the  thaw.  The  wind  lulled,  and  again 
the  minute-bell  tolled  out  clear  and  inexorable,  resolute  to 
recall  what  was  and  what  had  been. 

With  a  choking  gasp  the  little  man  turned  into  the 
house,   and  ran  up  the  stairs  and  into   his   room.     H< 
dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the  great  chest  in  the  corner, 


74  M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT 

and  unlocked  the  bottom  drawer,  the  key  turning  noisily 
in  its  socket. 

In  the  drawer  he  searched  with  feverish  ringers,  and 
produced  at  length  a  little  paper  packet  wrapped  about 
with  a  stained  yellow  ribbon.  It  was  the  ribbon  she  had 
used  to  weave  on  Sundays  into  her  soft  hair. 

Inside  the  packet  was  a  cheap,  heart-shaped  frame,  and 
in  it  a  photograph. 

Up  there  it  was  too  dark  to  see.  The  little  man  ran 
down  the  stairs,  Red  Wull  jostling  him  as  he  went,  and 
hurried  to  the  window  in  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  sweet,  laughing  face  that  looked  up  at  him 
from  frame,  demure  yet  arch,  shy  yet  roguish — a  face  to 
look  at  and  a  face  to  love. 

As  he  looked  a  wintry  smile,  wholly  tender,  half  tearful, 
stole  over  the  little  man's  face. 

"Lassie,"  he  whispered,  and  his  voice  was  infinitely 
soft,  "it's  lang  sin'  I've  daured  look  at  ye.  But  it's  no 
that  ye're  forgotten,  dearie." 

Then  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  though  he 
were  blinded. 

"Dinna  look  at  me  sae,  lass!"  he  cried,  and  fell  on  his 
knees,  kissing  the  picture,  hugging  it  to  him  and  sobbing 
passionately. 

Red  Wull  came  up  and  pushed  his  face  compassionately 
into  his  master's;  but  the  little  man  shoved  him  roughly 
away,  and  the  dog  retreated  into  a  corner,  abashed  and 
reproachful. 

Memories  swarmed  back  on  the  little  man. 

It  was  more  than  a  decade  ago  now,  and  yet  he  dared 
barely  think  of  that  last  evening  when  she  had  lain  so 
white  and  still  in  the  little  room  above. 


M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT  75 

"Pit  the  bairn  on  the  bed,  Adam  man,"  she  had  said  in 
low  tones.  "I'll  be  gaein'  in  a  wee  while  noo.  It's  the 
iang  good-by  to  you — and  him." 

He  had  done  her  bidding  and  lifted  David  up.  The  tiny 
boy  lay  still  a  moment,  looking  at  this  white-faced  mother 
whom  he  hardly  recognized. 

"  Minnie !"  he  called  piteously.  Then,  thrusting  a  small, 
dirty  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  pulled  out  a  grubby  sweet. 

"Minnie,  ha'  a  sweetie — ain  o'  Davie's  sweeties!"  and 
he  held  it  out  anxiously  in  his  warm  plump  palm,  thinking 
it  a  certain  cure  for  any  ill. 

"Eat  it  for  mither,"  she  said,  smiling  tenderly;  and 
then:     "Davie,  ma  heart,  I'm  leavin'  ye." 

The  boy  ceased  sucking  the  sweet,  and  looked  at  her, 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  drooping  pitifully. 

"Ye're  no  gaein'  awa',  mither?"  he  asked,  his  face  all 
working.     "Ye'll  no  leave  yer  wee  laddie?" 

"Ay,  laddie,  awa' — reet  awa'.  He's  callin'  me." 
She  tried  to  smile;  but  her  mother's  heart  was  near  to 
bursting. 

"Ye'll  tak'  yer  wee  Davie  wi'  ye  mither!"  the  child 
pleaded,  crawling  up  toward  her  face. 

The  great  tears  rolled,  unrestrained,  down  her  wan 
cheeks,  and  M'Adam,  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  was  sobbing 
openly. 

"Eh,  ma  bairn,  ma  bairn,  I'm  sair  to  leave  ye!"  she 
cried  brokenly.     "Lift  him  for  me,  Adam." 

He  placed  the  child  in  her  arms;  but  she  was  too  weak  to 
hold  him.  So  he  laid  him  upon  his  mother's  pillows;  and 
the  boy  wreathed  his  soft  arms  about  her  neck  and  sobbed 
tempestuously. 

And  the  two  lay  thus  together. 


76  M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT 

Just  before  she  died,  Flora  turned  her  head  and  whis^ 
pered : 

"Adam,  ma  man,  ye'll  ha'  to  be  mither  and  father 
baith  to  the  lad  noo":  and  she  looked  at  him  with  tender 
confidence  in  her  dying  eyes. 

"I  wull!  afore  God  as  I  stan'  here  I  wull!"  he  declared 
passionately.  Then  she  died,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
ineffable  peace  upon  her  face. 

"Mither  and  father  baith!" 

The  little  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  flung  the  photograph 
from  him.  Red  Wull  pounced  upon  it;  but  M'Adam 
leapt  at  him  as  he  mouthed  it. 

"Git  awa',  ye  devil!"  he  screamed;  and,  picking  it  up, 
stroked  it  lovingly  with  trembling  fingers. 

"Maither  and  father  baith!" 

How  had  he  fulfilled  his  love's  last  wish?     How! 

"Oh  God !" — and  he  fell  upon  his  knees  at  the  table-side, 
hugging  the  picture,  sobbing  and  praying. 

Red  Wull  cowered  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  and 
then  crept  whining  up  to  where  his  master  knelt.  But 
M'Adam  heeded  him  not,  and  the  great  dog  slunk  away 
again. 

There  the  little  man  knelt  in  the  gloom  of  the  winter's 
afternoon,  a  miserable  penitent.  His  gray-flecked  head 
was  bowed  upon  his  arms;  his  hands  clutched  the  picture; 
and  he  prayed  aloud  in  gasping,  halting  tones. 

"Gie  me  grace,  O  God!  'Father  and  mither  baith,'  ye 
said,  Flora — and  I  ha'na  done  it.  But  'tis  no  too  late — 
say  it's  no,  lass.  Tell  me  there's  time  yet,  and  say  ye 
forgie  me.  I've  tried  to  bear  wi'  him  mony  and  mony  a 
time.     But  he's  vexed  me,  and  set  himself  agin  me,  and 


M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT  7? 

stiffened  my  back,  and  ye  ken  hoo  I  was  aye  quick  to  tak' 
offence.  But  I'll  mak'  it  up  to  him — mak'  it  up  to  him, 
and  mair.  I'll  humble  masel'  afore  him,  and  that'll  be 
bitter  enough.  And  I'll  be  father  and  mither  baith  to 
him.  But  there's  bin  none  to  help  me;  and  it's  bin  sair 
wi'oot  ye.     And — but,  eh  lassie,  I'm  wearyin'  for  ye!" 

It  was  a  dreary  little  procession  that  wound  in  the 
drizzle  from  Kenmuir  to  the  little  Dale  Church.  At  the 
head  stalked  James  Moore,  and  close  behind  David  in 
his  meagre  coat.  While  last  of  all,  as  if  to  guide  the 
stragglers  in  the  weary  road,  came  Owd  Bob. 

There  was  a  full  congregation  in  the  tiny  church  now. 
In  the  squire's  pew  were  Cyril  Gilbraith,  Muriel  Sylvester, 
and,  most  conspicuous,  Lady  Eleanour.  Her  slender 
figure  was  simply  draped  in  gray,  with  gray  fur  about  the 
neck  and  gray  fur  edging  sleeves  and  jacket;  her  veil  was 
lifted,  and  you  could  see  the  soft  hair  about  her  temples, 
like  waves  breaking  on  white  cliffs,  and  her  eyes  big  with 
tender  sympathy  as  she  glanced  toward  the  pew  upon  her 
right. 

For  there  were  the  mourners  from  Kenmuir:  the  Master, 
tall,  grim,  and  gaunt;  and  beside  him  Maggie,  striving  to 
be  calm,  and  little  Andrew,  the  miniature  of  his  father. 

Alone,  in  the  pew  behind,  David  M'Adam  in  his  father's 
coat. 

The  back  of  the  church  was  packed  with  farmers  from 
the  whole  March  Mere  Estate;  friends  from  Silverdale  and 
Grammoch-town;  and  nearly  every  soul  in  Wastrel-dale, 
come  to  show  their  sympathy  for  the  living  and  reverence 
for  the  dead. 


78  M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT 

At  last  the  end  came  in  the  wet  dreariness  of  the  little 
churchyard,  and  slowly  the  mourners  departed,  until  at 
length  were  left  only  the  parson,  the  Master,  and  Owd 
Bob. 

The  parson  was  speaking  in  rough,  short  accents, 
digging  nervously  at  the  wet  ground.  The  other,  tall  and 
gaunt,  his  face  drawn  and  half-averted,  stood  listening. 
By  his  side  was  Owd  Bob,  scanning  his  master's  coun- 
tenance, a  wistful  compassion  deep  in  the  sad  gray  eyes; 
while  close  by,  one  of  the  parson's  terriers  was  nosing 
inquisitively  in  the  wet  grass. 

Of  a  sudden,  James  Moore,  his  face  still  turned  away, 
stretched  out  a  hand.  The  parson  broke  off  abruptly  and 
grasped  it.  Then  the  two  men  strode  away  in  opposite 
directions,  the  terrier  hopping  on  three  legs  and  shaking 
the  rain  off  his  hard  coat. 

David's  steps  sounded  outside.  M'Adam  rose  from 
his  knees.  The  door  of  the  house  opened,  and  the  boy's 
feet  shuffled  in  the  passage. 

"David!"  the  little  man  called  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

He  stood  in  the  half-light,  one  hand  on  the  table,  the 
other  clasping  the  picture.  His  eyes  were  bleared,  his  thin 
hair  all  tossed,  and  he  was  shaking. 

"David,"  he  called  again;  "I've  somethin'  I  wush  to 
say  to  ye!" 

The  boy  burst  into  the  room.  His  face  was  stained  with 
tears  and  rain;  and  the  new  black  coat  was  wet  and  slimy 
all  down  the  front,  and  on  the  elbows  were  green-brown, 
muddy  blots.  For,  on  his  way  home,  he  had  flung  himself 
down  in  the  Stony  Bottom  just  as  he  was,  heedless  of  the 
wet  earth  and  his  father's  coat,  and,  lying  on  his  face 


M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT  79 

thinking  of  that  second  mother  lost  to  him,  had  wept  his 
heart  out  in  a  storm  of  passionate  grief. 

Now  he  stood  defiantly,  his  hand  upon  the  door. 

"What  d'yo'  want?" 
The  little  man  looked  from  him  to  the  picture  in  his  hand. 

"Help  me,  Flora — he'll  no,"  he  prayed.  Then  raising 
his  eyes,  he  began:  "I'd  like  to  say — I've  bin  thinkin' — 
I  think  I  should  tell  ye — it's  no  an  easy  thing  for  a  man  to 
say " 

He  broke  off  short.  The  self-imposed  task  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  accomplish. 

He  looked  appealingly  at  David.  But  there  was  no 
glimmer  of  understanding  in  that  white,  set  countenance. 

"0  God,  it's  maist  mair  than  I  can  do!"  the  little  man 
muttered;  and  the  perspiration  stood  upon  his  forehead. 
Again  he  began:  "David,  after  I  saw  ye  this  afternoon 
steppin'  doon  the  hill " 

Again  he  paused.  ;His  glance  rested  unconsciously  upon 
the  coat.  David  mistook  the  look;  mistook  the  dimness 
in  his  father's  eyes;  mistook  the  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"Here  'tis!  tak'yo'  coat!"  he  cried  passionately;  and 
tearing  it  off,  flung  it  down  at  his  father's  feet.  "Tak'  it — 
and — and — curse  yo\" 

He  banged  out  of  the  room  and  ran  upstairs;  and, 
locking  himself  in,  threw  himself  on  to  his  bed  and  sobbed. 

Red  Wull  made  a  movement  to  fly  at  the  retreating 
figure;  then  turned  to  his  master,  his  stump-tail  vibrating 
with  pleasure. 

But  little  M'Adam  was  looking  at  the  wet  coat  now 
lying  in  a  wet  bundle  at  his  feet. 

"Curse  ye,"  he  repeated  softly.  "Curse  ye — ye  heard 
him,Wullie?" 


8o 


M'ADAM  AND  HIS  COAT 


A  bitter  smile  crept  across  his  face.  He  looked  again  at 
the  picture  now  lying  crushed  in  his  hand. 

"Ye  canna  say  I  didna  try;  ye  canna  ask  me  to  agin," 
he  muttered,  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  "Niver  agin, 
Wullie;  not  if  the  Queen  were  to  ask  it." 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  gloom  and  drizzle,  still 
smiling  the  same  bitter  smile. 


That  night,  when  it  came  to  closing-time  at  the  Sylvester 
Arms,  Jem  Burton  found  a  little  gray-haired  figure  lying 
on  the  floor  in  the  tap-room.  At  the  little  man's  head 
lay  a  great  dog. 

"Yo'  beast!"  said  the  righteous  publican,  regarding  the 
figure  of  his  best  customer  with  fine  scorn.  Then  catching 
sight  of  a  photograph  in  the  little  man's  hand : 

"Oh,  yo're  that  sort,  are  yo',  foxy  ?"  he  leered.  "Gie  us 
a  look  at  'er,"  and  he  tried  to  disengage  the  picture  from 
the  other's  grasp.  But  at  the  attempt  the  great  dog  rose, 
bared  his  teeth,  and  assumed  such  a  diabolical  expression 
that  the  big  landlord  retreated  hurriedly  behind  the  bar. 

"Two  on  ye!"  he  shouted  viciously,  rattling  his  heels; 
"beasts  baith!" 


PART  III 
THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 


CHAPTER  IX 


RIVALS 

'ADAM  never  forgave  his  son.  After  the  scene  Oil 
the  evening  of  the  funeral  there  could  be  no  alter- 
native but  war  for  all  time.  The  little  man  had  attempted 
to  humble  himself,  and  been  rejected;  and  the  bitterness 
Df  defeat,  when  he  had  deserved  victory,  rankled  like  a 
poisoned  barb  in  his  bosom. 

Yet  the  heat  of  his  indignation  was  directed  not  against 
David,  but  against  the  Master  of  Kenmuir.  To  the 
influence  and  agency  of  James  Moore  he  attributed  his 
discomfiture,  and  bore  himself  accordingly.  In  public 
or  in  private,  in  tap-room  or  market,  he  never  wearied  of 
abusing  his  enemy. 

"Feel  the  loss  o'  his  wife,  d'ye  say?"  he  would  cry. 
"Ay,  as  muckle  as  I  feel  the  loss  o'  my  hair.  James 
Moore  can  feel  naethin',  I  tell  ye,  except,  aiblins,  a 
mischance  to  his  meeserable  dog." 

When  the  two  met,  as  they  often  must,  it  was  always 

83 


84  RIVALS 

M* Adam's  endeavour  to  betray  his  enemy  into  an  unworthy 
expression  of  feeling.  But  James  Moore,  sorely  tried  as 
he  often  was,  never  gave  way.  He  met  the  little  man's 
sneers  with  a  quelling  silence,  looking  down  on  his  asp- 
tongued  antagonist  with  such  a  contempt  flashing  from  his 
blue-gray  eyes  as  hurt  his  adversary  more  than  words. 

Only  once  was  he  spurred  into  reply.  It  was  in  the 
tap-room  of  the  Dalesman's  Daughter  on  the  occasion  of 
the  big  spring  fair  in  Grammoch-town,  when  there  was  a 
goodly  gathering  of  farmers  and  their  dogs  in  the  room. 

M'Adam  was  standing  at  the  fireplace  with  Red  Wull  at 
his  side. 

"It's  a  noble  pairt  ye  play,  James  Moore,"  he  cried 
loudly  across  the  room,  "settin'  son  against  father,  and 
dividin'  hoose  against  hoose.  It's  worthy  o'  ye  we'  yer 
churchgoin',  and  yer  psalm-singin ',  and  yer  godliness." 

The  Master  looked  up  from  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"Happen  yo're  not  aware,  M'Adam,"  he  said  sternly, 
"that,  an'  it  had  not  bin  for  me,  David'd  ha'  left  you  years 
agone — and  'twould  nob'but  ha'  served  yo'  right,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

The  little  man  was  beaten  on  his  own  ground,  so  he 
changed  front. 

"Dinna  shout  so,  man — I  have  ears  to  hear.  Forbye 
ye  irritate  Wullie." 

The  Tailless  Tyke,  indeed,  had  advanced  from  the 
fireplace,  and  now  stood,  huge  and  hideous,  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  room.  There  was  distant  thunder  in  his 
throat,  a  threat  upon  his  face,  a  challenge  in  every  wrinkle. 
And  the  Gray  Dog  stole  gladly  out  from  behind  his  master 
to  take  up  the  gage  of  battle. 

Straightway  there  was  silence;  tongues  ceased  to  wag, 


RIVALS  8s 

tankards  to  clink.  Every  man  and  every  dog  was  quietly 
gathering  about  those  two  central  figures.  Not  one  of 
them  all  but  had  his  score  to  wipe  off  against  the  Tailless 
Tyke;  not  one  of  them  but  was  burning  to  join  in,  the 
battle  once  begun.  And  the  two  gladiators  stood  looking 
past  one  another,  muzzle  to  muzzle,  each  with  a  tiny 
flash  of  teeth  glinting  between  his  lips. 

But  the  fight  was  not  to  be;  for  the  twentieth  time  the 
Master  intervened. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  in!"  he  called,  and,  bending,  grasped 
his  favourite  by  the  neck. 

M'Adam  laughed  softly. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  cried.  "The  look  o'  you's 
enough  for  that  gentleman." 

"If  they  get  fightin'  it'll  no  be  Bob  here  I'll  hit,  I  warn 
yo',  M'Adam,"  said  the  Master  grimly. 

"Gin  ye  sae  muckle  as  touched  Wullie  d'ye  ken  what 
I'd  do,  James  Moore  ?"  asked  the  little  man  very  smoothly. 

"Yes — sweer,"  the  other  replied,  and  strode  out  of  the 
room  amid  a  roar  of  derisive  laughter  at  M'Adam's 
expense. 

Owd  Bob  had  now  attained  wellnigh  the  perfection  of 
his  art.  Parson  Leggy  declared  roundly  that  his  like  had 
not  been  seen  since  the  days  of  Rex  son  of  Rally.  Among 
the  Dalesmen  he  was  a  heroic  favourite,  his  prowess  and 
gentle  ways  winning  him  friends  on  every  hand.  But  the 
point  that  told  most  heavily  for  him  was  that  in  all  things 
he  was  the  very  antithesis  of  Red  Wull. 

Barely  a  man  in  the  country-side  but  owed  that  ferocious 
savage  a  grudge;  not  a  man  of  them  all  who  dared  pay  it. 
Once  Long  Kirby,  full  of  beer  and  valor,  tried  to  settle  his 
account.     Coming- on  M'Adam  and  Red  Wull  as  he  was 


86  RIVALS 

driving  into  Grammoch-town,  he  leant  over  and  with  his 
thong  dealt  the  dog  a  terrible  sword-like  flash  that  raised 
an  angry  ridge  of  red  from  hip  to  shoulder;  and  was 
twenty  yards  down  the  road  before  the  little  man's  shrill 
curse  reached  his  ear,  drowned  in  a  hideous  bellow. 

He  stood  up  and  lashed  the  colt,  who,  quick  on  his  legs 
for  a  young  un,  soon  settled  to  his  gallop.  But,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder,  he  saw  a  hounding  form  behind,  catching 
him  as  though  he  were  walking.  His  face  turned  sickly 
white;  he  screamed;  he  flogged;  he  looked  back.  Right 
beneath  the  tail-board  was  the  red  devil  in  the  dust;  while 
racing  a  furlong  behind  on  the  turnpike  road  was  the  mad 
figure  of  M'Adam. 

The  smith  struck  back  and  flogged  forward.  It  was  of  no 
avail.  With  a  tiger-like  bound  the  murderous  brute  leapt 
on  the  flying  trap.  At  the  shock  of  the  great  body  the  colt 
was  thrown  violently  on  his  side;  Kirby  was  tossed  over 
the  hedge;  and  Red  Wull  pinned  beneath  the  debris. 

M'Adam  had  time  to  rush  up  and  save  a  tragedy. 

"I've  a  mind  to  knife  ye,  Kirby,"  he  panted,  as  he 
bandaged  the  smith's  broken  head. 

After  that  you  may  be  sure  the  Dalesmen  preferred  to 
swallow  insults  rather  than  to  risk  their  lives;  and  their 
impotence  only  served  to  fan  their  hatred  to  white  heat. 

The  working  methods  of  the  antagonists  were  as 
contrasted  as  their  appearances.  In  a  word,  the  one 
compelled  where  the  other  coaxed. 

His  enemies  said  the  Tailless  Tyke  was  rough;  not  even 
Tammas  denied  he  was  ready.  His  brain  was  as  big  as 
his  body,  and  he  used  them  both  to  some  purpose.  "As 
quick  as  a  cat,  with  the  heart  of  a  lion  and  the  temper  of 
Nick's  self,"  was  Parson  Leggy 's  description. 


RIVALS  87 

What  determination  could  effect,  that  could  Red  Wull; 
but  achievement  by  inaction — supremest  of  all  strategies — 
was  not  for  him.  In  matters  of  the  subtlest  handling, 
where  to  act  anything  except  indifference  was  to  lose,  with 
sheep  restless,  fearful  forebodings  hymned  to  them  by  the 
wind,  panic  hovering  unseen  above  them,  when  an  ill- 
considered  movement  spelt  catastrophe — then  was  Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir  incomparable. 

Men  still  tell  how,  when  the  squire's  new  thrashing- 
machine  ran  amuck  in  Grammoch-town,  and  for  some 
minutes  the  market  square  was  a  turbulent  sea  of  blas- 
pheming men,  yelping  dogs,  and  stampeding  sheep,  only 
one  flock  stood  calm  as  a  mill-pond  by  the  bull-ring, 
watching  the  riot  with  almost  indifference.  And  in  front, 
sitting  between  them  and  the  storm,  was  a  quiet  gray  dog, 
his  mouth  stretched  in  a  capacious  yawn:  to  yawn  was 
to  win,  and  he  won. 

When  the  worst  of  the  uproar  was  over,  many  a  glance 
of  triumph  was  shot  first  at  that  one  still  pack,  and  then  at 
M'Adam,  as  he  waded  through  the  disorder  of  huddling 
sheep. 

"And  wheer's  your  Wullie  noo?"  asked  Tupper  scorn- 
fully. 

"Weel,"  the  little  man  answered  with  a  quiet  smile, 
"at  this  minute  he's  killin'  your  Rasper  doon  by  the 
pump."  Which  was  indeed  the  case;  for  big  blue  Rasper 
had  interfered  with  the  great  dog  in  the  performance  of  his 
duty,  and  suffered  accordingly. 


Spring  passed  into  summer;  and  the  excitement  as  to 
the  event  of  the  approaching  Trials,  when  at  length  the 


89  RIVALS 

rivals  would  be  pitted  against  one  another,  reached  such  a 
height  as  old  Jonas  Maddox,  the  octogenarian,  could 
hardly  recall. 

Down  in  the  Sylvester  Arms  there  was  almost  nightly  a 
conflict  between  M'Adam  and  Tammas  Thornton,  spokes- 
men of  the  Dalesmen.  Many  a  long-drawn  bout  of  words 
had  the  two  anent  the  respective  merits  and  Cup  chances 
of  red  and  gray.  In  these  duels  Tammas  was  usually 
worsted.  His  temper  would  get  the  better  of  his  dis- 
cretion; and  the  cynical  debator  would  be  lost  in  the  hot- 
tongued  partisan. 

During  these  encounters  the  others  would,  as  a  rule, 
maintain  a  rigid  silence.  Only  when  their  champion  was 
being  beaten,  and  it  was  time  for  strength  of  voice  to 
vanquish  strength  of  argument,  they  joined  in  right  lustily 
and  roared  the  little  man  down,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
gentlemen  who  rule  the  Empire  at  Westminster. 

Tammas  was  an  easy  subject  for  M'Adam  to  draw, 
but  David  was  an  easier.  Insults  directed  at  himself  the 
boy  bore  with  a  stolidity  born  of  long  use.  But  a  poison- 
ous dart  shot  against  his  friends  at  Kenmuir  never  failed 
to  achieve  its  object.  And  the  little  man  evinced  an 
amazing  talent  for  the  concoction  of  deft  lies  respecting 
James  Moore. 

"I'm  hearin',"  said  he,  one  evening,  sitting  in  the 
kitchen,  sucking  his  twig;  "I'm  hearin'  James  Moore  is 
gaein'  to  git  married  agin." 

"Yo're  hearin'  lies — or  mair-like  tellin'  'em,"  David 
answered  shortly.  For  he  treated  his  father  now  with 
contemptuous  indifference. 

"Seven  months  sin'  his  wife  died,"  the  little  man 
continued  meditatively.     "Weel,  I'm  on'y  'stonished  he's 


RIVALS  89 

waited  sae  lang.  Ain  buried,  anither  come  on — that's 
James  Moore." 

David  burst  angrily  out  of  the  room. 

"Gaein'  to  ask  him  if  it's  true?"  called  his  father  after 
him.     "Gude  luck  to  ye — and  him." 

David  had  now  a  new  interest  at  Kenmuir.  In  Maggie 
he  found  an  endless  source  of  study.  On  the  death  of  her 
mother  the  girl  had  taken  up  the  reins  of  government  at 
Kenmuir;  and  gallantly  she  played  her  part,  whether  in 
tenderly  mothering  the  baby,  wee  Anne,  or  in  the  sterner 
matters  of  household  work.  She  did  her  duty,  young 
though  she  was,  with  a  surprising,  old-fashioned  womanli- 
ness that  won  many  a  smile  of  approval  from  her  father, 
and  caused  David's  eyes  to  open  with  astonishment. 

And  he  soon  discovered  that  Maggie,  mistress  of 
Kenmuir,  was  another  person  from  his  erstwhile  play- 
fellow and  servant. 

The  happy  days  when  might  ruled  right  were  gone, 
never  to  be  recalled.  David  often  regretted  them, 
especially  when  in  a  conflict  of  tongues,  Maggie,  with 
her  quick  answers  and  teasing  eyes,  was  driving  him  sulky 
and  vanquished  from  the  field.  The  two  were  perpetually 
squabbling  now.  In  the  good  old  days,  he  remembered 
bitterly,  squabbles  between  them  were  unknown.  He  had 
never  permitted  them;  any  attempt  at  independent 
thought  or  action  was  as  sternly  quelled  as  in  the  Middle 
Ages.     She  must  follow  where  he  led  on — "Ma  word!" 

Now  she  was  mistress  where  he  had  been  master;  hers 
was  to  command,  his  to  obey.  In  consequence  they  were 
perpetually  at  war.  And  yet  he  would  sit  for  hours  in  the 
kitchen  and  watch  her,  as  she  went  about  her  business, 
with  solemn,  interested  eyes,  half  of  admiration,  half  of 


9o  RIVALS 

amusement.  In  the  end  Maggie  always  turned  on  him 
with  a  little  laugh  touched  with  irritation. 

"Han't  yo'  got  nothin'  better 'n  that  to  do,  nor  lookin* 
at  me?"  she  asked  one  Saturday  about  a  month  before 
Cup  Day. 

"No,  I  han't,"  the  pert  fellow  rejoined. 

"Then  I  wish  yo'  had.  It  mak's  me  fair  jumpety  yo* 
watchin'  me  so  like  ony  cat  a  mouse." 

"Niver  yo'  fash  yo'sei'  account  o'  me,  ma  wench," 
he  answered  calmly. 

"Yo'  wench,  indeed!"  she  cried,  tossing  her  head. 

"Ay,  or  will  be,"  he  muttered. 

"What's  that?"  she  cried,  springing  round,  a  flush  of 
color  on  her  face. 

"Nowt,  my  dear.  Yo'll  know  so  soon  as  I  want  yo'  to, 
yo'  may  be  sure,  and  no  sooner." 

The  girl  resumed  her  baking,  half  angry,  half  suspicious. 

"I  dunno'  what  yo'  mean,  Mr.  M'Adam,"  she  said. 

"Don't  yo',  Mrs.  M'A " 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  crash  of  a  falling  plate;  whereat 
David  laughed  quietly,  and  asked  if  he  should  help  pick  up 
the  bits. 

On  the  same  evening  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  an  announce- 
ment was  made  that  knocked  the  breath  out  of  its  hearers. 

In  the  debate  that  night  on  the  fast-approaching  Dale 
Trials  and  the  relative  abilities  of  red  and  gray,  M'Adam 
on  the  one  side,  and  Tammas,  backed  by  Long  Kirby 
and  the  rest,  on  the  other,  had  cudgelled  each  other  with 
more  than  usual  vigour.  The  controversy  rose  to  fever- 
heat;  abuse  succeeded  argument;  and  the  little  man  again 
and  again  was  hooted  into  silence. 


RIVALS  91 

"It's  easy  lamn',"  he  cried  at  last,  "but  ye '11  laff 
t'ither  side  o*  yer  ugly  faces  on  Cup  Day." 

"Will  us,  indeed  ?     Us'll  see,"  came  the  derisive  chorus. 

"We'll  whip  ye  till  ye 're  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  Wullie 
and  I." 

"Yo'll  not!" 

"We  will!" 

The  voices  were  rising  like  the  east  wind  in  March. 

"Yo'll  not,  and  for  a  very  good  reason  too,"  as- 
severated Tammas  loudly. 

"Gie  us  yer  reason,  ye  muckle  liar,"  cried  the  little 
man,  turning  on  him. 

"Becos "  began  Jim  Mason  and  stopped  to  rub 

his  nose. 

"Yo'  'old  yo'  noise,  Jim,"  recommended  Rob  Saunder- 
son. 

"Becos "  it  was  Tammas  this  time  who  paused. 

"Git  on  wi'  it,  ye  stammerin'  stirk!"  cried  M'Adam. 
"Why?" 

"Becos— Owd  Bob'll  not  rin." 

Tammas  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"What!"  screamed  the  little  man,  thrusting  forward. 

"What's  that!"  yelled  Long  Kirby,  leaping  to  his  feet. 

"Mon,  say  it  agin!"  shouted  Rob. 

"What's  owd  addled  eggs  tellin'?"  cried  Liz  Burton. 

"  Dang  his  'ead  for  him !"  shouts  Tupper. 

"Fill  his  eye!"  says  Ned  Hoppin. 

They  jostled  round  the  old  man's  chair:  M'Adam  in 
front;  Jem  Burton  and  Long  Kirby  leaning  over  his 
shoulder;  Liz  behind  her  father;  Saunderson  and  Tupper 
tackling  him  on  either  side;  while  the  rest  peered  and 
elbowed  in  the  rear. 


92 


RIVALS 


The  announcement  had  fallen  like  a  thunderbolt  among 
them. 

Tammas  looked  slowly  up  at  the  little  mob  of  eager 
faces  above  him.  Pride  at  the  sensation  caused  by  his 
news  struggled  in  his  countenance  with  genuine  sorrow  for 
the  matter  of  it. 

"Ay,  yo'  may  well  'earken  all  on  yo\  'Tis  enough  to 
mak'  the  deadies  listen.  I  says  agin:  WeVll  no  rin  oor 
Bob  fot'  Cup.  And  yo'  may  guess  why.  Bain't  every 
mon,  Mr.  M'Adam,  as'd  pit  aside  his  chanst  o'  the  Cup, 
and  that  'masit  a  gift  for  him" — M 'Adam's  tongue  was 
in  his  cheek — "and  it  a  certainty,"  the  old  man  continued 
warmly,  "oot  o'  respect  for  his  wife's  memory." 

The  news  was  received  in  utter  silence.  The  shock  of 
the  surprise,  coupled  v/ith  the  bitterness  of  the  disap- 
pointment, froze  the  slow  tongues  of  his  listeners. 

Only  one  small  voice  broke  the  stillness. 

"Oh,  the  feelin'  man!  He  should  git  a  reduction  o* 
rent  for  sic  a  display  o'  proper  speerit.  I'll  mind  Mr. 
Hornbut  to  let  auld  Sylvester  ken  o't." 

Which  he  did,  and  would  have  got  a  thrashing  for  his 
pains  had  not  Cyril  Gilbraith  thrown  him  out  of  the  par- 
sonage before  the  angry  cleric  could  lay  hands  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  X 


RED   WULL   WINS 

TAMMAS  had  but  told  the  melancholy  truth.  Owd 
Bob  was  not  to  run  for  the  cup.  And  this  self- 
denying  ordinance  speaks  more  for  James  Moore's  love 
of  his  lost  wife  than  many  a  lordly  cenotaph. 

To  the  people  of  the  Daleland,  from  the  Black  Water 
to  the  market-cross  in  Grammoch-town,  the  news  came 
with  the  shock  of  a  sudden  blow.  They  had  set  their 
hearts  on  the  Gray  Dog's  success;  and  had  felt  serenely 
confident  of  his  victory.  But  the  sting  of  the  matter  lay 
in  this :  that  now  the  Tailless  Tyke  might  well  win. 

M'Adam,  on  the  other  hand,  was  plunged  into  a  fervour 
of  delight  at  the  news.  For  to  win  the  Shepherd's  Trophy 
was  the  goal  of  his  ambition.  David  was  now  less  than 
nothing  to  the  lonely  little  man,  Red  Wull  everything  to 
him.  And  to  have  that  name  handed  down  to  posterity, 
gallantly  holding  its  place  among  those  of  the  most  famous 
sheep-dogs  of  all  time,  was  his  heart's  desire.^ 

93 


94  RED  WULL  WINS 

As  Cup  Day  drew  near,  the  little  man,  his  fine-drawn 
temperament  strung  to  the  highest  pitch  of  nervousness, 
was  tossed  on  a  sea  of  apprehension.  His  hopes  and  fears 
ebbed  and  flowed  on  the  tide  of  the  moment.  His  moods 
were  as  uncertain  as  the  winds  in  March;  and  there  was  no 
dependence  on  his  humor  for  a  unit  of  time.  At  one 
minute  he  paced  up  and  down  the  kitchen,  his  face  already 
flushed  with  the  glow  of  victory,  chanting: 

"Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled!" 

At  the  next  he  was  down  at  the  table,  his  head  buried  in 
his  hands,  his  whole  figure  shaking,  as  he  cried  in  choking 
voice :     "  Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie,  they're  all  agin  us." 

David  found  that  life  with  his  father  now  was  life  with 
an  unamiable  hornet.  Careless  as  he  affected  to  be  of  his 
father's  vagaries,  he  was  tried  almost  to  madness,  and  fled 
away  at  every  moment  to  Kenmuir;  for,  as  he  told 
Maggie,  "I'd  sooner  put  up  wi'  your  h'airs  and  h'im- 
perences,  miss,  than  wi'  him,  the  wemon  that  he  be!" 

At  length  the  great  day  came.  Fears,  hopes,  doubts, 
dismays,  all  dispersed  in  the  presence  of  the  reality. 

Cup  Day  is  always  a  general  holiday  in  the  Daleland, 
and  every  soul  crowds  over  to  Silverdale.  Shops  were 
shut;  special  trains  ran  in  to  Grammoch-town;  and  the  road 
from  the  little  town  was  dazed  with  char-a-bancs,  brakes, 
wagonettes,  carriages,  carts,  foot-passengers,  wending 
toward  the  Dalesman's  Daughter.  And  soon  the  paddock 
below  that  little  inn  was  humming  with  the  crowd  of 
sportsmen  and  spectators  come  to  see  the  battle  for  the 
Shepherd's  Trophy. 

There,  very  noticeable  with  its  red  body  and  yellow 


RED  WULL  WINS  95 

wheels,  was  the  great  Kenmuir  wagon.  Many  an  eye  was 
directed  on  the  handsome  young  pair  who  stood  in  it, 
conspicuous  and  unconscious,  above  the  crowd:  Maggie, 
looking  in  her  simple  print  frock  as  sweet  and  fresh  as  any 
mountain  flower;  while  David's  fair  face  was  all  gloomy 
and  his  brows  knit. 

In  front  of  the  wagon  was  a  black  cluster  of  Dalesmen, 
discussing  M'Adam's  chances.  In  the  centre  was  Tam- 
mas  holding  forth.  Had  you  passed  close  to  the  group 
you  might  have  heard:  "A  man,  d'yo  say,  Mr.  Maddox? 
A  h'ape,  I  call  him";  or:  "A  dog?  more  like  an  'og,  I 
tell  yo'."  Round  the  old  orator  were  Jonas,  'Enry,  and 
oor  Job,  Jem  Burton,  Rob  Saunderson,  Tupper,  Jim 
Mason,  Hoppun,  and  others;  while  on  the  outskirts  stood 
Sam'l  Todd  prophesying  rain  and  M'Adam's  victory. 
Close  at  hand  Bessie  Bolstock,  who  was  reputed  to  have 
designs  on  David,  was  giggling  spitefully  at  the  pair  in  the 
Kenmuir  wagon,  and  singing: 

"Let  a  lad  aloan,  lass, 
Let  a  lad  a-be." 

While  her  father,  Teddy,  dodged  in  and  out  among  the 
crowd  with  tray  and  glasses :  for  Cup  Day  was  the  great 
day  of  the  year  for  him. 

Past  the  group  of  Dalesmen  and  on  all  sides  was  a  mass 
of  bobbing  heads — Scots,  Northerners,  Yorkshiremen, 
Taffies.  To  right  and  left  a  long  array  of  carriages  and 
carts,  ranging  from  the  squire's  quiet  landau  and  Viscount 
Birdsaye's  gorgeous  barouche  to  Liz  Burton's  three-legged 
moke-cart  with  little  Mrs.  Burton,  the  twins,  young  Jake 
(who  should  have  walked),  and  Monkey  (ditto)  packed 
away  inside.     Beyond  the  Silver  Lea  the  gaunt  Scaur 


96  RED  WULL  WINS 

raised  its  craggy  peak,  and  the  Pass,  trending  along  its  side, 
shone  white  in  the  sunshine. 

At  the  back  of  the  carriages  were  booths,  cocoanut-shies, 
Aunt  Sallies,  shows,  bookmakers'  stools,  and  all  the 
panoply  of  such  a  meeting.  Here  Master  Launcelot 
Bilks  and  Jacky  Sylvester  were  righting;  Cyril  Gilbraith 
was  offering  to  take  on  the  boxing  man;  Long  Kirby  was 
snapping  up  the  odds  against  Red  Wull;  and  Liz  Burton 
and  young  Ned  Hoppin  were  being  photographed  together, 
while  Melia  Ross  in  the  background  was  pretending  she 
didn't  care. 

On  the  far  bank  of  the  stream  was  a  little  bevy  of  men 
and  dogs,  observed  of  all. 

The  Juvenile  Stakes  had  been  run  and  won;  Londesley 's 
Lassie  had  carried  off  the  Locals;  and  the  fight  for  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy  was  about  to  begin. 

"Yo're  not  lookin'  at  me  noo,"  whispered  Maggie  to 
the  silent  boy  by  her  side. 

"Nay:  nor  niver  don't  wush  to  agin."  David  an- 
swered roughly.  His  gaze  was  directed  over  the  array  of 
heads  in  front  to  where,  beyond  the  Silver  Lea,  a  group  of 
shepherds  and  their  dogs  was  clustered.  While  standing 
apart  from  the  rest,  in  characteristic  isolation,  was  the 
bent  figure  of  his  father,  and  beside  him  the  Tailless  Tyke. 

"Doest'o  not  want  yo'  feyther  to  win?"  asked  Maggie 
softly,  following  his  gaze. 

"I'm  prayin'  he'll  be  beat,"  the  boy  answered  moodily. 

"Eh,  Davie,  hoo  can  ye?"  cried  the  girl,  shocked. 

"It's  easy  to  say,  'Eh,  David,'"  he  snapped.  "But  if 
yo'  lived  along  o'  them  two" — he  nodded  toward  the 
stream — " 'appen  yo'd  understand  a  bit.  .  .  .  'Eh, 
David,'  indeed!     I  never  did!" 


RED  WULL  WINS  97 

"I  know  it,  lad,"  she  said  tenderly;  and  he  was 
appeased. 

"He'd  give  his  right  hand  for  his  bless 'd  Wullie  to  win; 
I  'd  give  me  right  arm  to  see  him  beat.  .  .  .  And  oor 
Bob  there  all  the  while, — he  nodded  to  the  far  left  of  the 
line,  where  stood  James  Moore  and  Owd  Bob,  with  Parson 
Leggy  and  the  Squire. 

When  at  length  Red  Wull  came  out  to  run  his  course, 
he  worked  with  the  savage  dash  that  always  characterized 
him.  His  method  was  his  own;  but  the  work  was  ad- 
mirably done. 

"Keeps  right  on  the  back  of  his  sheep,"  said  the 
parson,  watching  intently.  "Strange  thing  they  don't 
break !"  But  they  didn  't.  There  was  no  waiting,  no  coax- 
ing; it  was  drive  and  devilry  all  through.  He  brought  his 
sheep  along  at  a  terrific  rate,  never  missing  a  turn,  never 
faltering,  never  running  out.  And  the  crowd  applauded, 
for  the  crowd  loves  a  dashing  display.  While  little 
M'Adam,  hopping  agilely  about,  his  face  ablaze  with 
excitement,  handled  dog  and  sheep  with  a  masterly  pre- 
cision that  compelled  the  admiration  even  of  his  enemies. 

"M'Adam  wins!"  roared  a  bookmaker.  "Twelve  to 
one  agin  the  field!" 

"He  wins,  dang  him!"  said  David,  low. 

"Wull  wins!"  said  the  parson,  shutting  his  lips. 

"And  deserves  too!"  said  James  Moore. 

"Wull  wins!"  softly  cried  the  crowd. 

"We  don't!"  said  Sam'l  gloomily. 

And  in  the  end  Red  Wull  did  win;  and  there  were  none 
save  Tammas,  the  bigot,  and  Long  Kirby,  who  had  lost  a 
good  deal  of  his  wife's  money  and  a  little  of  his  own,  to 
challenge  the  justice  of  the  verdict. 


98  RED  WULL  WINS 

The  win  had  but  a  chilling  reception.  At  first  there  was 
faint  cheering;  but  it  sounded  like  the  echo  of  an  echo,  and 
soon  died  of  inanition.  To  get  up  an  ovation,  there  must 
be  money  at  the  back,  or  a  few  roaring  fanatics  to  lead  the 
dance.  Here  there  was  neither;  ugly  stories,  disparaging 
remarks,  on  every  hand.  And  the  hundreds  who  did  not 
know  took  their  tone,  as  always,  from  those  who  said  they 
did. 

M'Adam  could  but  remark  the  absence  of  enthusiasm 
as  he  pushed  up  through  the  throng  toward  the  committee 
tent.  No  single  voice  hailed  him  victor;  no  friendly  hand 
smote  its  congratulations.  Broad  backs  were  turned; 
contemptuous  glances  levelled;  spiteful  remarks  shot. 
Only  the  foreign  element  looked  curiously  at  the  little  bent 
figure  with  the  glowing  face,  and  shrank  back  at  the  size 
and  savage  aspect  of  the  great  dog  at  his  heels. 

But  what  cared  he?  His  Wullie  was  acknowledged 
champion,  the  best  sheep-dog  of  the  year;  and  the  little 
man  was  happy.  They  could  turn  their  backs  on  him; 
but  they  could  not  alter  that;  and  he  could  afford  to  be 
indifferent.  "They  dinna  like  it,  lad — he!  he!  But 
they'll  e'en  ha'  to  thole  it.  Ye've  won  it,  Wullie — won  it 
fair." 

He  elbowed  through  the  press,  making  for  the  rope- 
guarded  inclosure  in  front  of  the  committee  tent,  round 
which  the  people  were  now  packing.  In  the  door  of  the 
tent  stood  the  secretary,  various  stewards,  and  members  of 
the  committee.  In  front,  alone  in  the  roped-ofF  space, 
was  Lady  Eleanour,  fragile,  dainty,  graceful,  waiting  with  a 
smile  upon  her  face  to  receive  the  winner.  And  on  a 
table  beside  her,  naked  and  dignified,  the  Shepherds' 
Trophy. 


RED  WULL  WINS  99 

There  it  stood,  kingly  and  impressive;  its  fair  white 
sides  inscribed  with  many  names;  cradled  in  three  shep- 
herds' crooks;  and  on  the  top,  as  if  to  guard  the  Cup's 
contents,  an  exquisitely  carved  collie's  head.  The  Shep- 
herds' Trophy,  the  goal  of  his  life's  race,  and  many 
another  man's. 

He  climbed  over  the  rope,  followed  by  Red  Wull,  and 
took  off  his  hat  with  almost  courtly  deference  to  the  fair 
lady  before  him. 

As  he  walked  up  to  the  table  on  which  the  Cup  stood,  a 
shrill  voice,  easily  recognizable,  broke  the  silence. 

"You'd  like  it  better  if  'twas  full  and  yo'  could  swim  in 
it,  you  and  yer  Wullie,"  it  called.  Whereat  the  crowd 
giggled,  and  Lady  Eleanour  looked  indignant. 

The  little  man  turned. 

"I'll  mind  drink  yer  health,  Mr.  Thornton,  never  fear, 
though  I  ken  ye'd  prefaire  to  drink  yer  am,"  he  said. 
At  which  the  crowd  giggled  afresh;  and  a  gray  head  at  the 
back,  which  had  hoped  itself  unrecognized,  disappeared 
suddenly. 

The  little  man  stood  there  in  the  stillness,  sourly  smiling, 
his  face  still  wet  from  his  exertions;  while  the  Tailless  Tyke 
at  his  side  fronted  defiantly  the  serried  ring  of  onlookers, 
a  white  fence  of  teeth  faintly  visible  between  his  lips. 

Lady  Eleanour  looked  uneasy.  Usually  the  lucky 
winner  was  unable  to  hear  her  little  speech,  as  she  gave  the 
Cup  away,  so  deafening  was  the  applause.  Now  there 
was  utter  silence.  She  glanced  up  at  the  crowd,  but 
there  was  no  response  to  her  unspoken  appeal  in  that 
forest  of  hostile  faces.  And  her  gentle  heart  bled  for  the 
forlorn  little  man  before  her.  To  make  it  up  she  smiled 
on  him  so  sweetly  as  to  more  than  compensate  him. 


ioo  RED  WULL  WINS 

"I'm  sure  you  deserve  your  success,  Mr.  M'Adam," 
she  said.  "You  and  Red  Wull  there  worked  splendidly — 
everybody  says  so." 

"I've  heard  naethin'  o't,"  the  little  man  answered 
dryly.     At  which  some  one  in  the  crowd  sniggered. 

"And  we  all  know  what  a  grand  dog  he  is;  though" — 
with  a  reproving  smile  as  she  glanced  at  Red  Wull's  square, 
truncated  stern — "he's  not  very  polite." 

"His  heart  is  good,  your  Leddyship,  if  his  manners  are 
not,"  M'Adam  answered,  smiling. 

"Liar!"  came  a  loud  voice  in  the  silence.  Lady  Elean- 
our  looked  up,  hot  with  indignation,  and  half  rose  from  her 
seat.     But  M'Adam  merely  smiled. 

"Wullie,  turn  and  mak'  yer  bow  to  the  leddy,"  he 
said.  "They'll  no  hurt  us  noo  we're  up;  it's  when  we're 
doon  they'll  flock  like  corbies  to  the  carrion." 

At  that  Red  Wull  walked  up  to  Lady  Eleanour,  faintly 
wagging  his  tail;  and  she  put  her  hand  on  his  huge  bull 
head  and  said,  "Dear  old  Ugly!"  at  which  the  crowd 
cheered  in  earnest. 

After  that,  for  some  moments,  the  only  sound  was  the 
gentle  ripple  of  the  good  lady 's  voice  and  the  little  man 's 
caustic  replies. 

"Why,  last  winter  the  country  was  full  of  Red  Wull's 
doings  and  yours.  It  was  always  M'Adam  and  his  Red 
Wull  have  done  this  and  that  and  the  other.  I  declare  I 
got  quite  tired  of  you  both,  I  heard  such  a  lot  about 
you. 

The  little  man,  cap  in  hand,  smiled,  blushed,  and  looked 
genuinely  pleased. 

"And  when  it  wasn't  you  it  was  Mr.  Moore  and  Owd 
Bob." 


RED  WULL  WINS  101 

"Owd  Bob,  bless  him!"  called  a  stentorian  voice. 
"Three  cheers  for  oor  Bob!" 

"Tp!  'ip!  'ooray!"  It  was  taken  up  gallantly,  and 
cast  from  mouth  to  mouth;  and  strangers,  though  they 
did  not  understand,  caught  the  contagion  and  cheered,  too; 
and  the  uproar  continued  for  some  minutes. 

When  it  was  ended  Lady  Eleanour  was  standing  up,  a 
faint  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  flashing  dangerously, 
like  a  queen  at  bay. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  and  her  clear  voice  thrilled  through 
the  air  like  a  trumpet.  "Yes;  and  now  three  cheers  for 
Mr.  M 'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull!    Hip!  hip " 

"Hooray!"  A  little  knowt  of  stalwarts  at  the  back — 
James  Moore,  Parson  Leggy,  Jim  Mason,  and  you  may 
be  sure  in  heart,  at  least,  Owd  Bob — responded  to  the  call 
right  lustily.  The  crowd  joined  in;  and,  once  off,  cheered 
and  cheered  again. 

"Three  cheers  more  for  Mr.  M'Adam!" 

But  the  little  man  waved  to  them. 

"Dinna  be  bigger  heepocrites  than  ye  can  help,"  he 
said.  "YeVe  done  enough  for  one  day,  and  thank  ye  for 
it." 

Then  Lady  Eleanour  handed  him  the  Cup. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,  I  present  you  with  the  Champion 
Challenge  Dale  Cup,  open  to  all  comers.  Keep  it,  guard 
it,  love  it  as  your  own,  and  win  it  again  if  you  can.  Twice 
more  and  it's  yours,  you  know,  and  it  will  stop  forever 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Pike.  And  the  right  place  for 
it,  say  I — the  Dale  Cup  for  Dalesmen." 

The  little  man  took  the  Cup  tenderly. 

"It  shall  no  leave  the  Estate  or  ma  hoose,  yer  Leddy- 
ship,  gin  Wullie  and  I  can  help  it,"  he  said  emphatically. 


102  RED  WULL  WINS 

Lady  Eleanour  retreated  into  the  tent,  and  the  crowd 
swarmed  over  the  ropes  and  round  the  little  man,  who  held 
the  Cup  beneath  his  arm. 

Long  Kirby  laid  irreverent  hands  upon  it. 

"Dinna  ringer  it!"  ordered  M'Adam. 

"Shall!" 

"Shan't!  Wullie,  keep  him  aff."  Which  the  great 
dog  proceeded  to  do  amid  the  laughter  of  the  onlookers. 

Among  the  last,  James  Moore  was  borne  past  the  little 
man.  At  sight  of  him,  M 'Adam's  face  assumed  an 
expression  of  intense  concern. 

"Man,  Moore!"  he  cried,  peering  forward  as  though  in 
alarm;  "man,  Moore,  ye 're  green — positeevely  verdant. 
Are  ye  in  pain?"  Then,  catching  sight  of  Owd  Bob,  he 
started  back  in  affected  horror. 

"And,  ma  certes!  so's  yer  dog!  Yer  dog  as  was  gray 
is  green.  Oh,  guid  life!" — and  he  made  as  though  about  to 
fall  fainting  to  the  ground. 

Then,  in  bantering  tones;  "Ah,  but  ye  shouldna 
covet " 

"He'll  ha'  no  need  to  covet  it  long,  I  can  tell  yo'," 
interposed  Tammas's  shrill  accents. 

"And  why  for  no?" 

"  Becos  next  year  he  '11  win  it  fra  yo'.  Oor  Bob  '11  win  it. 
little  mon.     Why?  thot's  why." 

The  retort  was  greeted  with  a  yell  of  applause  from  the 
sprinkling  of  Dalesmen  in  the  crowd. 

But  M'Adam  swaggered  away  into  the  tent,  his  head 
up,  the  Cup  beneath  his  arm,  and  Red  Wull  guarding  his 
rear. 

"First  of  a'  ye'll  ha'  to  beat  Adam  M'Adam  and  his 
Red  Wull!"  he  cried  back  proudly. 


CHAPTER  XI 


OOR   BOB 


M 'ADAM'S  pride  in  the  great  Cup  that  now  graced 
his  kitchen  was  supreme.  It  stood  alone  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  mantelpiece,  just  below  the  old  bell- 
mouthed  blunderbuss  that  hung  upon  the  wall.  The 
only  ornament  in  the  bare  room,  it  shone  out  in  its  silvery 
chastity  like  the  moon  in  a  gloomy  sky. 

For  once  the  little  man  was  content.  Since  his  mother's 
death  David  had  never  known  such  peace.  It  was  not 
that  his  father  became  actively  kind;  rather  that  he  forgot 
to  be  actively  unkind. 

"Not  as  I  care  a  brazen  button  one  way  or  t'ither," 
the  boy  informed  Maggie. 

"Then  yo'  should,"  that  proper  little  person  replied. 

M'Adam  was,  indeed,  a  changed  being.  He  forgot  to 
curse  James  Moore;  he  forgot  to  sneer  at  Owd  Bob;  he 
rarely  visited  the  Sylvester  Arms,  to  the  detriment  of  Jem 
Burton's  pocket  and  temper;  and  he  was  never  drunk. 

103 


io4  OOR  BOB 

"Soaks  'isself  at  home,  instead,"  suggested  Tammas, 
the  prejudiced.     But  the  accusation  was  untrue. 

"Too  drunk  to  git  so  far,"  said  Long  Kirby,  kindly  man. 

"I  reck'n  the  Cup  is  kind  o'  company  to  him,"  said 
Jim  Mason.  "Happen  it's  lonesomeness  as  drives  him 
here  so  much."  And  happen  you  were  right,  charitable 
Jim. 

"Best  mak'  maist  on  it,  while  he  has  it,  'cos  he'll  not 
have  it  for  long,"  Tammas  remarked  amid  applause. 

Even  Parson  Leggy  allowed — rather  reluctantly,  indeed, 
for  he  was  but  human — that  the  little  man  was  changed 
wonderfully  for  the  better. 

"But  I  am  afraid  it  may  not  last,"  he  said.  "We  shall 
see  what  happens  when  Owd  Bob  beats  him  for  the  Cup, 
as  he  certainly  will.       That'll  be  the  critical  moment." 

As  things  were,  the  little  man  spent  all  his  spare  mo- 
ments with  the  Cup  between  his  knees,  burnishing  it  and 
crooning  to  Wullie : 

"I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 
And  neist  my  heart  I  '11  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine." 

There,  Wullie!  look  at  her!  is  she  no  bonnie?  She 
shines  like  a  twinkle — twinkle  in  the  sky."  And  he 
would  hold  it  out  at  arm's  length,  his  head  cocked  sideways 
the  better  to  scan  its  bright  beauties. 

The  little  man  was  very  jealous  for  his  treasure.  David 
might  not  touch  it;  might  not  smoke  in  the  kitchen  lest 
the  fumes  should  tarnish  its  glory;  while  if  he  approached 
too  closely  he  was  ordered  abruptly  away. 

"As  if  I  wanted  to  touch  his  nasty  Cup !"  he  complained 
to  Maggie.     "  I'd  sooner  ony  day " 


OOR  BOB  105 

"Hands  aff,  Mr.  David,  immediate!"  she  cried  in- 
dignantly. "'Pertinence,  indeed!"  as  she  tossed  her 
head  clear  of  the  big  ringers  that  were  fondling  her  pretty 
hair. 

So  it  was  that  M'Adam,  on  coming  quietly  into  the 
kitchen  one  day,  was  consumed  with  angry  resentment  to 
find  David  actually  handling  the  object  of  his  reverence; 
and  the  manner  of  his  doing  it  added  a  thousandfold  to  the 
offence. 

The  boy  was  lolling  indolently  against  the  mantelpiece, 
his  fair  head  shoved  right  into  the  Cup,  his  breath  dimming 
its  lustre,  and  his  two  hands,  big  and  dirty,  slowly  re- 
volving it  before  his  eyes. 

Bursting  with  indignation,  the  little  man  crept  up 
behind  the  boy.  David  was  reading  through  the  long  list 
of  winners. 

"Theer's  the  first  on  'em,"  he  muttered,  shooting  out 
his  tongue  to  indicate  the  locality:  "'Andrew  Moore's 
Rough,  1 78-'  And  theer  agin — 'James  Moore's  Pinch, 
179.-'  And  agin — 'Beck,  182-.'  Ah,  and  theer's  'im 
Tammas  tells  on!  'Rex  183-,'  and  'Rex,  183-.'  Ay, 
but  he  was  a  rare  un  by  all  tellin's!  If  he'd  nob 'but  won 
but  onst  agin!  Ah,  and  theer's  none  like  the  Gray  Dogs — 
they  all  says  that,  and  I  say  so  masel';  none  like  the  Gray 

Dogs  o'  Kenmuir,  bless  'em!     And  we'll  win  agin  too " 

he  broke  off  short;  his  eye  had  travelled  down  to  the  last 
name  on  the  list. 

"'M 'Adam's  Wull!'"  he  read  with  unspeakable  con- 
tempt, and  put  his  great  thumb  across  the  name  as  though 
to  wipe  it  out.  "'M 'Adam's  Wull!'  Goo'  gracious 
sakes!  P-h-g-h-r-r!" — and  he  made  a  motion  as  though 
to  spit  upon  the  ground. 


106  OOR  BOB 

But  a  little  shoulder  was  into  his  side,  two  small  fists 
were  beating  at  his  chest,  and  a  shrill  voice  was  yelling: 
''Devil!  devil!  stan'  awa'!" — and  he  was  tumbled 
precipitately  away  from  the  mantelpiece,  and  brought  up 
abruptly  against  the  side-wall. 

The  precious  Cup  swayed  on  its  ebony  stand,  the  boy's 
hands,  rudely  withdrawn,  almost  overthrowing  it.  But 
the  little  man's  first  impulse,  cursing  and  screaming  though 
he  was,  was  to  steady  it. 

"  *M  'Adam's  Wull' !  I  wish  he  was  here  to  teach  ye,  ye 
snod-faced,  ox-limbed  profleegit!"  he  cried,  standing  in 
front  of  the  Cup,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"Ay,  'M 'Adam's  Wull'!  And  why  not  'M 'Adam's 
Wull'?     Ha'  ye  ony  objections  to  the  name?" 

"I  didn't  know  yo'  was  theer,"  said  David,  a  thought 
sheepishly. 

"Na;  or  ye'd  not  ha'  said  it." 

"I'd  ha  thought  it,  though,"  muttered  the  boy. 

Luckily,  however,  his  father  did  not  hear.  He  stretched 
his  hands  up  tenderly  for  the  Cup,  lifted  it  down,  and 
began  reverently  to  polish  the  dimmed  sides  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"Ye're  thinkin',  nae  doot,"  he  cried,  casting  up  a 
vicious  glance  at  David,  "that  Wullie's  no  gude  enough  to 
ha'  his  name  alangside  o'  they  cursed  Gray  Dogs.  Are 
ye  no?     Let's  ha'  the  truth  for  aince — for  a  diversion." 

"Reck'n  he's  good  enough  if  there's  none  better," 
David  replied  dispassionately. 

"And  wha  should  there  be  better?  Tell  me  that,  ye 
muckle  gowk." 

David  smiled. 

"Eh,  but  that'd  be  long  tellin,"  he  said. 


OOR  BOB  107 

"And  what  wad  ye  mean  by  that?"  his  father  cried. 

"Nay;  I  was  but  thinkin'  that  Mr.  Moore's  Bob '11 
look  gradely  writ  under  yon."  He  pointed  to  the  vacant 
space  below  Red  Wull's  name. 

The  little  man  put  the  Cup  back  on  its  pedestal  with 
hurried  hands.  The  handkerchief  dropped  unconsidered 
to  the  floor;  he  turned  and  sprang  furiously  at  the  boy, 
who  stood  against  the  wall,  still  smiling;  and,  seizing  him 
by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  shook  him  to  and  fro  with  fiery 
energy. 

"So  ye 're  hopin',  prayin',  nae  doot,  that  James  Moore 
-—curse  him! — will  win  ma  Cup  awa'  from  me,  yer  ain  dad. 
I  wonder  ye 're  no  'shamed  to  crass  ma  door!  Ye  live  on 
me;  ye  suck  ma  blood,  ye  foul-mouthed  leech.  Wullie 
and  me  brak'  oorsel's  to  keep  ye  in  hoose  and  hame — and 
what's  yer  gratitude?     Ye  plot  to  rob  us  of  oor  rights." 

He  dropped  the  boy's  coat  and  stood  back. 

"No  rights  about  it,"  said  David,  still  keeping  his 
temper. 

"If  I  win  is  it  no  ma  right  as  muckle  as  ony  English- 
man's?" 

Red  Wull,  who  had  heard  the  rising  voices,  came  trot- 
ting in,  scowled  at  David,  and  took  his  stand  beside  his 
master. 

"Ay,  if  yo'  win  it,"  said  David,  with  significant  em- 
phasis on  the  conjunction. 

"And  wha's  to  beat  us?" 

David  looked  at  his  father  in  well-affected  surprise. 

"I  tell  yo'  Owd  Bob's  rinin',"  he  answered. 

"And  what  if  he  is?"  the  other  cried. 

"Why,  even  yo'  should  know  so  much,"  the  boy  sneered. 

The  little  man  could  not  fail  to  understand. 


108  OOR  BOB 

"So  that's  it!"  he  said.  Then,  in  a  scream,  with  one 
finger  pointing  to  the  great  dog: 

"And  what  o'  him?  What'll  ma  Wullie  be  doin'  the 
while?  Tell  me  that,  and  ha' a  care!  Mind  ye,  he  Stan's 
here  hearkenin'!"  And,  indeed,  the  Tailless  Tyke  was 
bristling  for  battle. 

David  did  not  like  the  look  of  things;  and  edged  away 
toward  the  door. 

"What'll  Wullie  be  doin',  ye  chicken-hearted  brock?" 
his  father  cried. 

"  Tm?"  said  the  boy,  now  clcse  on  the  door!  "  Tm?" 
he  said,  with  a  slow  contempt  that  made  the  red  bristles 
quiver  on  the  dog's  neck.  "Lookin'  on,  I  should  think — 
lookin' on.    What  else  is  he  fit  for?    I  tell  yo' oor  Bob " 

" — 'Oor    Bob'!"   screamed    the    little    man,    darting 

forward.      "'Oor  Bob'!      Hark  to  him.     I'll  'oor ' 

At  him,  Wullie!     At  him!" 

But  the  Tailless  Tyke  needed  no  encouragement. 
With  a  harsh  roar  he  sprang  through  the  air,  only  to 
crash  against  the  closing  door! 

The  outer  door  banged,  and  in  another  second  a  mocking 
finger  tapped  on  the  window-pane. 

"Better  luck  to  the  two  on  yo'  next  time!"  laughed  a 
scornful  voice;  and  David  ran  down  the  hill  toward 
Kenmuir. 


CHAPTER  XII 


HOW  RED   WULL   HELD   THE    BRIDGE 

FROM  that  hour  the  fire  of  M 'Adam's  jealousy- 
blazed  into  a  mighty  flame.  The  winning  of  the 
Dale  Cup  had  become  a  mania  with  him.  He  had  won  it 
once,  and  would  again  despite  all  the  Moores,  all  the  Gray 
Dogs,  all  the  undutiful  sons  in  existence;  on  that  point 
he  was  resolved.  The  fact  of  his  having  tasted  the  joys 
of  victory  served  to  whet  his  desire.  And  now  he  felt  he 
could  never  be  happy  till  the  Cup  was  his  own — won 
outright. 

At  home  David  might  barely  enter  the  room.  There 
the  trophy  stood. 

"I'll  not  ha'  ye  touch  ma  Cup,  ye  dirty-fingered,  ill- 
begotten  wastrel.  Wullie  and  me  won  it — you'd  naught 
to  do  wi'  it.  Go  you  to  James  Moore  and  James  Moore's 
dog." 

"Ay,  and  shall  I  tak'  Cup  wi'  me?  or  will  ye  bide  till 
it's  took  from  ye?" 

109 


no  HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

So  the  two  went  on;  and  every  day  the  tension  ap- 
proached nearer  breaking-point. 

In  the  Dale  the  little  man  met  with  no  sympathy. 
The  hearts  of  the  Dalesmen  were  to  a  man  with  Owd  Bob 
and  his  master. 

Whereas  once  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  his  shrill,  ill 
tongue  had  been  rarely  still,  now  he  maintained  a  sullen 
silence;  Jem  Burton,  at  least,  had  no  cause  of  complaint. 
Crouched  away  in  a  corner,  with  Red  Wull  beside  him,  the 
little  man  would  sit  watching  and  listening  as  the  Dales- 
man talked  of  Owd  Bob's  doings,  his  staunchness,  sagacity, 
and  coming  victory. 

Sometimes  he  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  Then  he 
would  spring  to  his  feet,  and  stand,  a  little  swaying  figure, 
and  denounce  them  passionately  in  almost  pathetic -elo- 
quence.    These  orations  always  concluded  in  set  fashion. 

"Ye 're  all  agin  us!"  the  little  man  would  cry  in  quiver- 
ing voice. 

"We  are  that,"  Tammas  would  answer  complacently. 

"  Fair  means  or  foul,  ye're  content  sae  lang  as  Wullie  and 
me  are  beat.  I  wonder  ye  dinna  poison  him — a  little 
arsenic,  and  the  way's  clear  to  your  Bob." 

"The  way  is  clear  enough  wi'oot  that,"  from  Tammas 
caustically.  Then  a  lengthy  silence,  only  broken  by  that 
exceeding  bitter  cry:  "Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie,  they're  all 
agin  us!" 

And  always  the  rivals — red  and  gray — went  about 
seeking  their  opportunity.  But  the  Master,  with  his 
commanding  presence  and  stern  eyes,  was  ever  ready  for 
them.  Toward  the  end,  M'Adam,  silent  and  sneering, 
would  secretly  urge  on  Red  Wull  to  the  attack;  until. one 


HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE    in 

day  in  Grammoch-town,  James  Moore  turned  on  him, 
his  blue  eyes  glittering.  "D'yo'  think,  yo'  little  fule," 
he  cried  in  that  hard  voice  of  his,  "that  onst  they  got  set 
we  should  iver  git  either  of  them  off  alive  ?"  It  seemed  to 
strike  the  little  man  as  a  novel  idea;  for,  from  that 
moment,  he  was  ever  the  first  in  his  feverish  endeavours  to 
oppose  his  small  form,  buffer-like,  between  the  would-be 
combatants. 

Curse  as  M  'Adam  might,  threaten  as  he  might,  when  the 
time  came  Owd  Bob  won. 

The  styles  of  the  rivals  were  well  contrasted:  the 
patience,  the  insinuating  eloquence,  combined  with  the 
splendid  dash,  of  the  one;  and  the  fierce,  driving  fury  of 
the  other. 

The  issue  was  never  in  doubt.  It  may  have  been  that 
the  temper  of  the  Tailless  Tyke  gave  in  the  time  of  trial; 
it  may  have  been  that  his  sheep  were  wild,  as  M'Adam 
declared;  certainly  not,  as  the  little  man  alleged  in 
choking  voice,  that  they  had  been  chosen  and  purposely 
set  aside  to  ruin  his  chance.  Certain  it  is  that  his  tactics 
scared  them  hopelessly:     and  he  never  had  them  in  hand. 

As  for  Owd  Bob,  his  dropping,  his  driving,  his  penning, 
aroused  the  loud-tongued  admiration  of  crowd  and  com- 
petitors alike.  He  was  patient  yet  persistent,  quiet  yet 
iirm,  and  seemed  to  coax  his  charges  in  the  right  way  in 
that  inimitable  manner  of  his  own. 

When,  at  length,  the  verdict  was  given,  and  it  was 
known  that,  after  an  interval  of  half  a  century,  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy  was  won  again  by  a  Gray  Dog  of 
Kenmuir,  there  was  such  a  scene  as  has  been  rarely 
witnessed  on  the  slope  behind  the  Dalesman's  Daughter. 


ii2    HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

Great  fists  were  slapped  on  mighty  backs;  great  feet  were 
stamped  on  the  sun-dried  banks  of  the  Silver  Lea;  stalwart 
lungs  were  strained  to  their  uttermost  capacity;  and  roars 
of  "Moore!"  "Owd  Bob  o' Kenmuir!  '  "The  Gray  Dogs!" 
thundered  up  the  hillside,  and  were  flung,  thundering,  back. 

Even  James  Moore  was  visibly  moved  as  he  worked  his 
way  through  the  cheering  mob;  and  Owd  Bob,  trotting 
alongside  him  in  quiet  dignity,  seemed  to  wave  his  silvery 
brush  in  acknowledgment. 

Master  Jacky  Sylvester  alternately  turned  cart-wheels 
and  felled  the  Hon.  Launcelot  Bilks  to  the  ground. 
Lady  Eleanour,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure,  waved 
her  parasol,  and  attempted  to  restrain  her  son's  exuber- 
ance. Parson  Leggy  danced  an  unclerical  jig,  and  shook 
hands  with  the  squire  till  both  those  fine  old  gentlemen 
were  purple  in  the  face.  Long  Kirby  selected  a  small  man 
in  the  crowd,  and  bashed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 
While  Tammas,  Rob  Saunderson,  Tupper,  Hoppin, 
Londesley,  and  the  rest  joined  hands  and  went  raving 
round  like  so  many  giddy  girls. 

Of  them  all,  however,  none  was  so  uproarious  in  the  mad 
heat  of  his  enthusiasm  as  David  M'Adam.  He  stood  in 
the  Kenmuir  wagon  beside  Maggie,  a  conspicuous  figure 
above  the  crowd,  as  he  roared  in  hoarse  ecstasy: 

"Weel  done,  oor  Bob!  Weel  done,  Mr.  Moore!  Yo've 
knocked  him!  Knock  him  agn!  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir! 
Moore!  Moore  o'  Kenmuir!  Hip!  Hip!"  until  the 
noisy  young  giant  attracted  such  attention  in  his  boister- 
ous delight  that  Maggie  had  to  lay  a  hand  upon  his  arm  to 
restrain  his  violence. 

Alone,  on  the  far  bank  of  the  stream,  stood  the  van- 
quished pair. 


HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE    113 

The  little  man  was  trembling  slightly;  his  face  was  still 
hot  from  his  exertions;  and  as  he  listened  to  the  ovation 
accorded  to  his  conqueror,  there  was  a  piteous  set  grin 
upon  his  face.  In  front  stood  the  defeated  dog,  his  lips 
wrinkling  and  hackles  rising,  as  he,  too,  saw  and  heard  and 
understood. 

"It's  a  gran*  thing  to  ha*  a  dutiful  son,  Wullie,"  the 
little  man  whispered,  watching  David's  waving  figure. 
"He's  happy — and  so  are  they  a' — not  sae  much  that 
James  Moore  has  won,   as  that  you  and  I  are  beat." 

Then,  breaking  down  for  a  moment: 

"Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie!  They're  all  agin  us.  It's  you  and 
I  alane,  lad." 

Again,  seeing  the  squire  followed  by  Parson  Leggy, 
Viscount  Birdsaye,  and  others  of  the  gentry,  forcing  their 
way  through  the  press  to  shake  hands  with  the  victor,  he 
continued : 

"It's  good  to  be  in  wi'  the  quality,  Wullie.  Niver  mak* 
a  friend  of  a  man  beneath  ye  in  rank,  nor  an  enemy  of  a 
man  aboon  ye:  that's  a  soond  principle,  Wullie,  if  ye'd 
get  on  in  honest  England." 

He  stood  there,  alone  with  his  dog,  watching  the  crowd 
on  the  far  slope  as  it  surged  upward  in  the  direction  of  the 
committee  tent.  Only  when  the  black  mass  had  packed 
itself  in  solid  phalanges  about  that  ring,  inside  which,  just 
a  year  ago,  he  had  stood  in  very  different  circumstances, 
and  was  at  length  still,  a  wintry  smile  played  for  a  moment 
about  his  lips.     He  laughed  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Bide  a  wee,  Wullie — he!  he!     Bide  a  wee. 

"The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley."' 


ii4    HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

As  he  spoke,  there  came  down  to  him,  above  the  tumult 
a  faint  cry  of  mingled  surprise  and  anger.  The  cheering 
ceased  abruptly.  There  was  silence;  then  there  burst  on 
the  stillness  a  hurricane  of  indignation. 

The  crowd  surged  forward,  then  turned.  Every  eye 
was  directed  across  the  stream.  A  hundred  damning 
fingers  pointed  at  the  solitary  figure  there.  There  were 
hoarse  yells  of:  "There  he  be!  Yon's  him!  What's 
he  done  wi'  it  ?     Thief!     Throttle  him !" 

The  mob  came  lumbering  down  the  slope  like  one  man, 
thundering  their  imprecations  on  a  thousand  throats. 
They  looked  dangerous,  and  their  wrath  was  stimulated 
by  the  knot  of  angry  Dalesmen  who  led  the  van.  There 
was  more  than  one  white  face  among  the  women  at  the  top 
of  the  slope  as  they  watched  the  crowd  blundering  blindly 
down  the  hill.  There  were  more  men  than  Parson  Leggy, 
the  squire,  James  Moore,  and  the  local  constables  in  the 
thick  of  it  all,  striving  frantically  with  voice  and  gesture, 
ay,  and  stick  too,  to  stem  the  advance. 

It  was  useless;  on  the  dark  wave  rolled,  irrestible. 

On  the  far  bank  stood  the  little  man,  motionless, 
awaiting  them  with  a  grin  upon  his  face.  And  a  little 
farther  in  front  was  the  Tailless  Tyke,  his  back  and  neck 
like  a  newshorn  wheat-field,  as  he  rumbled  a  vast  chal- 
lenge. 

"Come  on,  gentlemen!"  the  little  man  cried.  "Come 
on!  I'll  bide  for  ye,  never  fear.  Ye 're  a  thousand  to  one 
and  a  dog.     It's  the  odds  ye  like,  Englishmen  a'." 

And  the  mob,  with  murder  in  its  throat,  accepted  the 
invitation  and  came  on. 

At  the  moment,  however,  from  the  slope  above,  cleai 
above  the  tramp  of  the  multitude,  a  great  voice  bellowed : 


HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE    115 

"Way!  Way!  Way  for  Mr.  Trotter!"  The  advancing 
host  checked  and  opened  out;  and  the  secretary  of  the 
meeting  bundled  through. 

He  was  a  small,  fat  man,  fussy  at  any  time,  and  per- 
petually perspiring.  Now  his  face  was  crimson  with  rage 
and  running;  he  gesticulated  wildly;  vague  words  bubbled 
forth,  as  his  short  legs  twinkled  down  the  slope. 

The  crowd  paused  to  admire.  Some  one  shouted  a 
witticism,  and  the  crowd  laughed.  For  the  moment  the 
situation  was  saved. 

The  fat  secretary  hurried  on  down  the  slope,  unheeding 
of  any  insult  but  the  one.  He  bounced  over  the  plank- 
bridge:  and  as  he  came  closer,  M'Adam  saw  that  in  each 
hand  brandished  a  brick. 

"Hoots,  man!  dinna  throw!"  he  cried,  making  a  feint 
as  though  to  turn  in  sudden  terror. 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  gasped  the  secretary, 
waving  his  arms. 

"Bricks  'twad  seem/'  the  other  answered,  staying  his 
flight. 

The  secretary  puffed  up  like  a  pudding  in  a  hurry. 

"Where's  the  Cup?  Champion,  Challenge,  etc.," 
he  jerked  out.  "Mind,  sir,  you're  responsible!  wholly 
responsible!  Dents,  damages,  delays!  What's  it  all 
mean,  sir?  These — these  monstrous  creations" — he 
brandished  the  bricks,  and  M'Adam  started  back — 
"wrapped,  as  I  live,  in  straw,  sir,  in  the  Cup  case,  sir! 
the  Cup  case!  No  Cup!  Infamous!  Disgraceful!  Insult 
me — meeting — committee — everyone!  What's  it  mean, 
sir?"  He  paused  to  pant,  his  body  filling  and  empty- 
ing like  a  bladder. 

M'Adam  approached  him  with  one  eye  on  the  crowd, 


n6  HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

which  was  heaving  forward  again,  threatening  still,  but 
sullen  and  silent. 

"I  pit  'em  there,"  he  whispered;  and  drew  back  to 
watch  the  effect  of  his  disclosure. 

The  secretary  gasped. 

"You — you  not  only  do  this — amazing  thing — these 
monstrosities" — he  hurled  the  bricks  furiously  on  the 
unoffending    ground — "but    you    dare    to    tell    me    so!" 

The  little  man  smiled. 

"'Do  wrang  and  conceal  it,  do  right  and  confess  it' 
that's  Englishmen's  motto,  and  mine,  as  a  rule;  but  this 
time  I  had  ma  reasons." 

"Reasons,  sir!  No  reasons  can  justify  such  an  extra- 
ordinary breach  of  all  the — the  decencies.  Reasons? 
The  reasons  of  a  maniac.  Not  to  say  more,  sir.  Fraud- 
ulent detention — fraudulent,  I  say,  sir!  What  were  your 
precious  reasons?" 

The  mob  with  Tammas  and  Long  Kirby  at  their  head 
had  now  well  nigh  reached  the  plank-bridge.  They  still 
looked  dangerous,  and  there  were  isolated  cries  of: 

"Duck  him!" 

"Chuck  him  in!" 

"An' the  dog!" 

"Wi'  one  o'  they  bricks  about  their  necks!" 

"There  are  my  reasons !"  said  M  'Adam,  pointing  to  the 
forest  of  menacing  faces.  "Ye  see  I'm  no  beloved  amang 
yonder  gentlemen,  and" — in  a  stage  whisper  in  the  other's 
ear — "I  thocht  maybe  I'd  be  'tacked  on  the  road. 

Tammas  foremost  of  the  crowd,  had  now  his  foot  upon 
the  first  plank. 

"Ye  robber!  Ye  thief!  Wait  till  we  set  hands  on  ye, 
you  and  yer  gorilla!"  he  called. 


HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE    117 

M  'Adam  half  turned. 

"Wullie,"  he  said  quietly,  "keep  the  bridge." 

At  the  order  the  Tailless  Tyke  shot  gladly  forward,  and 
the  leaders  on  the  bridge  as  hastily  back.  The  dog  gallop- 
ed on  to  the  rattling  plank,  took  his  post  fair  and  square  in 
the  centre  of  the  narrow  way,  and  stood  facing  the  hostile 
crew  like  Cerberus  guarding  the  gates  of  hell:  his  bull- 
head was  thrust  forward,  hackles  up,  teeth  glinting,  and 
a  distant  rumbling  in  his  throat,  as  though  daring  them  to 
come  on. 

"Ycf  first,  ole  lad!"  said  Tammas,  hopping  agilely 
behind  Long  Kirby. 

"Nay;  the  old  uns  lead!"  cried  the  big  smith,  his  face 
gray-white.  He  wrenched  round,  pinned  the  old  man  by 
the  arms,  and  held  him  forcibly  before  him  as  a  covering 
shield.  There  ensued  an  unseemly  struggle  betwixt  the 
two  valiants,  Tammas  bellowing  and  kicking  in  the  throes 
of  mortal  fear. 

"Jim  Mason'll  show  us,"  he  suggested  at  last. 

"Nay,"  said  honest  Jim;  "I'm  fear'd."  He  could  say 
it  with  impunity;  for  the  pluck  of  Postie  Jim  was  a  matter 
long  past  dispute. 

Then  Jem  Burton 'd  go  first? 

Nay;  Jem  had  a  lovin'  wife  and  dear  little  kids  at  'ome. 

Then  Big  Bell? 

Big  Bell'd  see  'isself  further  first. 

A  tall  figure  came  forcing  through  the  crowd,  his  face  a 
little  paler  than  its  wont,  and  a  formidable  knob-kerry  in 
his  hand. 

"I'm  goin'!"  said  David. 

"But  yo're  not,"  answered  burly  Sam'l,  gripping  the 
boy  from  behind  with   arms  like  the  roots  of  an  oak. 


n&    HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

"Your  time '11  coom  soon  enough  by  the  look  on  yo'  wi' 
niver  no  hurry."  And  the  sense  of  the  Dalesmen  was  with 
the  big  man;  for,  as  old  Rob  Saunderson  said : 

"I  reckon  he'd  liefer  claw  on  to  your  throat,  lad,  nor 
ony  o'  oors." 

As  there  was  no  one  forthcoming  to  claim  the  honour  of 
the  lead,  Tammas  came  forward  with  cunning  counsel. 

"Tell  yo'  what,  lads,  we'd  best  let  'em  as  don't  know 
nowt  at  all  aboot  him  go  first.  And  onst  they're  on,  mind, 
we  winna  let  'em  off;  but  keep  a  shovin'  and  a-bovin' 
on  'em  forra'd.     Then  us'll  foller. " 

By  this  time  there  was  a  little  naked  space  of  green 
round  the  bridge-head,  like  a  fairy  circle,  into  which  the 
uninitiated  might  not  penetrate.  Round  this  the  mob 
hedged:  the  Dalesmen  in  front,  striving  knavishly 
back  and  bawling  to  those  behind  to  leggo  that  shovin'; 
and  these  latter  urging  valorously  forward,  yelling  jeers 
and  contumely  at  the  front  rank.  "Come  on!  'O's 
afraid?  Lerrus  through  to  'em,  then,  ye  Royal  Stan'- 
backsl" — for  well  they  knew  the  impossibility  of  their 
demand. 

And  as  they  wedged  and  jostled  thus,  there  stole  out 
from  their  midst  as  gallant  a  champion  as  ever  trod  the 
grass.  He  trotted  out  into  the  ring,  the  observed  of  all, 
and  paused  to  gaze  at  the  gaunt  figure  on  the  bridge.  The 
sun  lit  the  sprinkling  of  snow  on  the  dome  of  his  head; 
one  forepaw  was  off  the  ground;  and  he  stood  there, 
royally  alert,  scanning  his  antagonist. 

"Th'  Owd  Un!"  went  up  in  a  roar  fit  to  split  the  air 
as  the  hero  of  the  day  was  recognized.  And  the  Dalesmen 
gave  a  pace  forward  spontaneously  as  the  gray  knight- 
errant  stole  across  the  green. 


The  dog  galloped  on  to  the  rattling  plank,  took  his  post  fair  and  square 
in  the  centre  of  the  narrow  zvay,  and  stood  facing  the  hostile  crew. 


HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE    119 

"Oor  Bob '11  fetch  him!"  they  roared,  their  blood  leap- 
ing to  fever  heat,  and  gripped  their  sticks,  determined  in 
stern  reality  to  follow  now. 

The  gray  champion  trotted  up  on  to  the  bridge,  and 
paused  again,  the  long  hair  about  his  neck  rising  like  a  ruff, 
and  a  strange  glint  in  his  eyes;  and  the  holder  of  the  bridge 
never  moved.  Red  and  Gray  stood  thus,  face  to  face: 
the  one  gay  yet  resolute,  the  other  motionless,  his  great 
head  slowly  sinking  between  his  forelegs,  seemingly 
petrified. 

There  was  no  shouting  now:  it  was  time  for  deeds,  not 
words.  Only,  above  the  stillness,  came  a  sound  from  the 
bridge  like  the  snore  of  a  giant  in  his  sleep,  and  blending, 
with  it,  a  low,  deep,  purring  thunder  like  some  monster  cat 
well  pleased. 

"Wullie,"  came  a  solitary  voice  from  the  far  side, 
"keep  the  bridge  1" 

One  ear  went  back,  one  ear  was  still  forward;  the  great 
head  was  low  and  lower  between  his  forelegs  and  the 
glowing  eyes  rolled  upward  so  that  the  watchers  could  see 
the  murderous  white. 

Forward  the  gray  dog  stepped. 

Then,  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon,  a  voice,  stern 
and  hard,  came  ringing  down  from  the  slope  above  over 
the  heads  of  the  many. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  back!" 

"He!  he!  I  thocht  that  was  comin',"  sneered  the  small 
voice  over  the  stream. 

The  gray  dog  heard,  and  checked. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  in,  I  say!" 

At  that  he  swung  round  and  marched  slowly  back, 
gallant  as  he  had  come,  dignified  still  in  his  mortification. 


120    HOW  RED  WULL  HELD  THE  BRIDGE 

And  Red  Wull  threw  back  his  head  and  bellowed  a  paean 
of  victory — challenge,  triumph,  scorn,  all  blended  in  that 
bull-like,  blood-chilling  blare. 


In  the  mean  time,  M'Adam  and  the  secretary  had 
concluded  their  business.  It  had  been  settled  that  the 
Cup  was  to  be  delivered  over  to  James  Moore  not  later 
than  the  following  Saturday. 

"Saturday,  see!  at  the  latest!"  the  secretary  cried  as 
he  turned  and  trotted  off. 

"Mr.  Trotter,"  M'Adam  called  after  him,  "I'm  sorry, 
but  ye  maun  bide  this  side  the  Lea  till  I've  reached  the 
foot  o'  the  Pass.     Gin  they  gentlemen" — nodding  toward 

the  crowd — "should  set  hands  on  me,  why "  and  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly.  "Forbye,  Wullie's 
keepin'  the  bridge." 

With  that  the  little  man  strolled  off  leisurely;  now 
dallying  to  pick  a  flower,  now  to  wave  a  mocking  hand  at 
the  furious  mob,  and  so  slowly  on  to  the  foot  of  the  Muirk 
Muir  Pass. 

There  he  turned  and  whistled  that  shrill,  peculiar  note. 
"Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  called. 

At  that,  with  one  last  threat  thrown  at  the  thousand 
souls  he  had  held  at  bay  for  thirty  minutes,  the  Tailless 
Tyke  swung  about  and  galloped  after  his  lord. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE    FACE    IN   THE    FRAME 


ALL  Friday  M'Adam  never  left  the  kitchen.  He  sat 
„  opposite  the  Cup,  in  a  coma,  as  it  were:  and  Red 
Wull  lay  motionless  at  his  feet. 

Saturday  came,  and  still  the  two  never  budged.  To- 
ward the  evening  the  little  man  rose,  all  in  a  tremble,  and 
took  the  Cup  down  from  the  mantelpiece;  then  he  sat 
down  again  with  it  in  his  arms. 

"Eh,  Wullie,  Wullie,  is  it  a  dream?  Ha'  they  took  her 
fra  us  ?     Eh,  but  it's  you  and  I  alane,  lad." 

He  hugged  it  to  him,  crying  silently,  and  rocking  to  and 
fro  like  a  mother  with  a  dying  child.  And  Red  Wull  sat 
up  on  his  haunches,  and  weaved  from  side  to  side  in 
sympathy. 

As  the  dark  was  falling,  David  looked  in. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  the  little  man  swung 
round  noiselessly,  the  Cup  nursed  in  his  arms,  and  glared, 
sullen  and  suspicious,   at  the  boy;  yet  seemed  not  to 

121 


122  THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME 

recognize  him.  In  the  half-light  David  could  see  the  tears 
coursing  down  the  little  wizened  face. 

"Ton  ma  life,  he's  gaein'  daft!"  was  his  comment  as  he 
turned  away  to  Kenmuir.  And  again  the  mourners  were 
left  alone. 

"A  few  hours  noo,  Wullie,"  the  little  man  wailed,  "and 
she'll  be  gane.  We  won  her,  Wullie,  you  and  I,  won  her 
fair:  she's  lit  the  hoose  for  us;  she's  softened  a'  for  us — 
and  God  kens  we  needed  it;  she  was  the  ae  thing  we  had  to 
look  to  and  love.  And  noo  they're  takin'  her  awa', 
and  'twill  be  night  agin.  We've  cherished  her,  we've 
garnished  her,  we've  loved  her  like  oor  ain;  and  noo  she 
maun  gang  to  strangers  who  know  her  not." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  great  dog  rose  with  him. 
His  voice  heightened  to  a  scream,  and  he  swayed  with  the 
Cup  in  his  arms  till  it  seemed  he  must  fall. 

"Did  they  win  her  fair,  Wullie?  Na;  they  plotted, 
they  conspired,  they  worked  ilka  ain  o'  them  agin  us,  and 
they  beat  us.  Ay,  and  noo  they're  robbin'  us — robbin' 
us!  But  they  shallna  ha'  her.  Oor's  or  naebody's, 
Wullie!     We'll  finish  her  sooner  nor  that." 

He  banged  the  Cup  down  on  the  table  and  rushed  madly 
out  of  the  room,  Red  Wull  at  his  heels.  In  a  moment  he 
came  running  back,  brandishing  a  great  axe  about  his 
head. 

"Come  on,  Wullie!"  he  cried.  "'Scots  wha  hae'! 
Noo's  the  day  and  noo's  the  hour!     Come  on!" 

On  the  table  before  him,  serene  and  beautiful,  stood  the 
target  of  his  madness.  The  little  man  ran  at  it,  swinging 
his  murderous  weapon  like  a  flail. 

"Oor's  or  naebody's  Wullie!  Come  on!  'Lay  the 
proud  usurpers  low'!"     He  aimed  a  mighty  buffet;  and 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME  123 

the  Shepherds5  Trophy — the  Shepherds'  Trophy  which 
had  won  through  the  hardships  of  a  hundred  years — was 
almost  gone.  It  seemed  to  quiver  as  the  blow  fell.  But 
the  cruel  steel  missed,  and  the  axe-head  sank  into  the 
wood,  clean  and  deep,  like  a  spade  in  snow. 

Red  Wull  had  leapt  on  to  the  table,  and  in  his  cavernous 
voice  was  grumbling  a  chorus  to  his  master's  yells.  The 
little  man  danced  up  and  down,  tugging  and  straining  at 
the  axe-handle. 

"You  and  I,  Wullie! 

'Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow!'" 

The  axe-head  was  as  immoveable  as  the  Muir  Pike. 

"'Let  us  do  or  die !'" 

The  shaft  snapped,  and  the  little  man  tottered  back. 
Red  Wull  jumped  down  from  the  table,  and,  in  doing  so, 
brushed  against  the  Cup.  It  toppled*  over  on  to  the  floor, 
and  rolled  tinkling  away  in  the  dust.  And  the  little  man 
fled  madly  out  of  the  house,  still  screaming  his  war-song. 

When,  late  that  night,  M'Adam  returned  home,  the 
Cup  was  gone.  Down  on  his  hands  and  knees  he  traced 
out  its  path,  plain  to  see,  where  it  had  rolled  along  the 
dusty  floor.     Beyond  that  there  was  no  sign. 

At  first  he  was  too  much  overcome  to  speak.  Then  he 
raved  round  the  room  like  a  derelict  ship,  Red  Wull 
following  uneasily  behind.  He  cursed;  he  blasphemed; 
he  screamed  and  beat  the  walls  with  feverish  hands.  A 
stranger,  passing,  might  well  have  thought  this  was  a 

*N.B — You  may  see  the  dent  in  the  Cup's  white  sides  to  this  day. 


124  THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME 

private  Bedlam.  At  last,  exhausted,  he  sat  down  and 
cried. 

"It's  David,  Wullie,  ye  may  depend;  David  that's 
robbed  his  father's  hoose.  Oh,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  ha'  a 
dutiful  son!" — and  he  bowed  his  gray  head  in  his  hands. 

David,  indeed,  it  was.  He  had  come  back  to  the 
Grange  during  his  father's  absence,  and,  taking  the  Cup 
from  its  grimy  bed,  had  marched  it  away  to  its  rightful 
home.  For  that  evening  at  Kenmuir,  James  Moore  had 
said  to  him: 

"David,  your  father's  not  sent  the  Cup.  I  shall  come 
and  fetch  it  to-morrow."  And  David  knew  he  meant  it. 
Therefore,  in  order  to  save  a  collision  between  his  father 
and  his  friend — a  collision  the  issue  of  which  he  dared 
hardly  contemplate,  knowing,  as  he  did,  the  unalterable 
determination  of  the  one  and  the  lunatic  passion  of  the 
other — the  boy  had  resolved  to  fetch  the  Cup  himself, 
then  and  there,  in  the  teeth,  if  needs  be,  of  his  father  and 
the  Tailless  Tyke.     And  he  had  done  it. 

When  he  reached  home  that  night  he  marched,  con- 
trary to  his  wont,  straight  into  the  kitchen. 

There  sat  his  father  facing  the  door,  awaiting  him,  his 
hands  upon  his  knees.  For  once  the  little  man  was  alone; 
and  David,  brave  though  he  was,  thanked  heaven  devoutly 
that  Red  Wull  was  elsewhere. 

For  a  while  father  and  son  kept  silence,  watching  one 
another  like  two  fencers. 

"  'Twas  you  as  took  ma  Cup  ?"  asked  the  little  man 
at  last,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  'Twas  me  as  took  Mr.  Moore's  Cup,"  the  boy  replied. 
"I  thowt  yo'  mun  ha'  done  wi'  it — I  found  it  all  bashed 
upon  the  floor." 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME  125 

"You  took  it — pit  up  to  it,  nae  doot,  by  James  Moore. " 

David  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"Ay,  by  James  Moore,"  his  father  continued.  "He 
dursena  come  hissel'  for  his  ill-gotten  spoils,  so  he  sent  the 
son  to  rob  the  father.  The  coward!" — his  whole  frame 
shook  with  passion.  "I'd  ha'  thocht  James  Moore'd  ha' 
bin  man  enough  to  come  himself  for  what  he  wanted.  I 
see  noo  I  did  him  a  wrang — I  misjudged  him.  I  kent  him 
a  heepocrite;  ain  o'  yer  unco  gudes;  a  man  as  looks  one 
thing,  says  anither,  and  does  a  third;  and  noo  I  ken  he's  a 
coward.  He's  fear'd  o'  me,  sic  as  I  am,  five  foot  twa  in 
ma  stockin's."  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height. 

"Mr.  Moore  had  nowt  to  do  wi'  it,"  David  persisted. 

"Ye're  lyin'.     James  Moore  pit  ye  to  it." 

"I  tell  yo'  he  did  not." 

"Ye'd  ha'  bin  willin'  enough  wi'oot  him,  if  ye'd  thocht 
Jx.>  I  grant  ye.  But  ye've  no  the  wits.  All  there  is  o' 
ye  has  gane  to  mak'  yer  muckle  body.  Hooiver,  that's 
no  matter.  I'll  settle  wi'  James  Moore  anither  time. 
I'll  settle  wi'  you  noo,  David  M'Adam." 

He  paused,  and  looked  the  boy  over  from  head  to 
foot. 

"So,  ye're  not  only  an  idler!  a  wastrel!  a  liar!" — 
he  spat  the  words  out.     "Ye're  — God  help  ye — a  thief!" 

"I'm  no  thief!"  the  boy  returned  hotly.  "I  did  but 
give  to  a  mon  what  ma  feyther — shame  on  him! — wrong- 
fully kept  from  him." 

"Wrangfully?"  cried  the  little  man,  advancing  with 
burning  face. 

"  Twas  honourably  done,  keepin'  what  wasna  your'n 
to  keep!     Holdin'  back  his  rights  from  a  man!    Ay,  if 


126  THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME 

ony  one's  the  thief,  it's  not  me:  it's  you,  I  say,  you!" — 
and  he  looked  his  father  in  the  face  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I'm  the  thief,  am  I?"  cried  the  other,  incoherent  with 
passion.  "Though  ye 're  three  times  ma  size,  I'll  teach  ma 
son  to  speak  so  to  me." 

The  old  strap,  now  long  disused,  hung  in  the  chimney 
corner.  As  he  spoke  the  little  man  sprang  back,  ripped  it 
from  the  wall,  and,  almost  before  David  realized  what  he 
was  at,  had  brought  it  down  with  a  savage  slash  across  his 
son's  shoulders;  and  as  he  smote  he  whistled  a  shrill, 
imperative  note: 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  tome!" 

David  felt  the  blow  through  his  coat  like  a  bar  of  hot 
iron  laid  across  his  back.  His  passion  seethed  within 
him;  every  vein  throbbed;  every  nerve  quivered.  In  a 
minute  he  would  wipe  out,  once  and  for  all,  the  score  of 
years;  for  the  moment,  however,  there  was  urgent  business 
on  hand.  For  outside  he  could  hear  the  quick  patter  of 
feet  hard-galloping,  and  the  scurry  of  a  huge  creature 
racing  madly  to  a  call. 

With  a  bound  he  sprang  at  the  open  door;  and  again  the 
strap  came  lashing  down,  and  a  wild  voice: 

"Quick,  Wullie!     For  God's  sake,  quick!" 

David  slammed  the  door  to.  It  shut  with  a  rasping  snap; 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  great  body  from  without  thun- 
dered against  it  with  terrific  violence,  and  a  deep  voice 
roared  like  the  sea  when  thwarted  of  its  prey. 

"Too  late,  agin!"  said  David,  breathing  hard;  and 
shot  the  bolt  home  with  a  clang.  Then  he  turned  on 
his  father. 

"Noo,"  said  he,  "man  to  man!" 

"Ay,  "  cried  the  other,  "father  to  son!" 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME  127 

The  little  man  half  turned  and  leapt  at  the  old  muske- 
toon  hanging  on  the  wall.  He  missed  it,  turned  again, 
and  struck  with  the  strap  full  at  the  other's  face.  David 
caught  the  falling  arm  at  the  wrist,  hitting  it  aside  with 
such  tremendous  force  that  the  bone  all  but  snapped. 
Then  he  smote  his  father  a  terrible  blow  on  the  chest,  and 
the  little  man  staggered  back,  gasping,  into  the  corner; 
while  the  strap  dropped  from  his  numbed  fingers. 

Outside  Red  Wull  whined  and  scratched;  but  the  two 
men  paid  no  heed. 

David  strode  forward;  there  was  murder  in  his  face. 
The  little  man  saw  it:  his  time  was  come;  but  his  bitterest 
foe  never  impugned  Adam  M 'Adam's  courage. 

He  stood  huddled  in  the  corner,  all  dishevelled,  nursing 
one  arm  with  the  other,  entirely  unafraid. 

"Mind,  David,"  he  said,  quite  calm,  "murder  'twill 
be,  not  manslaughter. ' ' 

"Murder  'twill  be,"  the  boy  answered,  in  thick,  low 
voice,  and  was  across  the  room. 

Outside  Red  Wull  banged  and  clawed  high  up  on  the 
door  with  impotent  pats. 

The  little  man  suddenly  slipped  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
pulled  out  something,  and  flung  it.  The  missile  pattered 
on  his  son's  face  like  a  rain-drop  on  a  charging  bull,  and 
David  smiled  as  he  came  on.  It  dropped  softly  on  the 
table  at  his  side;  he  looked  down  and — it  was  the  face  of 
his  mother  which  gazed  up  at  him! 

"Mither!"  he  sobbed,  stopping  short.  "Mither!  Ma 
God,  ye  saved  him — and  me!" 

He  stood  there,  utterly  unhinged,  shaking  and  whimper' 
ing. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  pulled  himself  together.; 


r28  THE  FACE  IN  THE  FRAME 

then  he  walked  to  the  wall,  took  down  a  pair  of  shears,  and 
seated  himself  at  the  table,  still  trembling.  Near  him  lay 
the  miniature,  all  torn  and  crumpled,  and  beside  it  the 
deep-buried  axe-head. 

He  picked  up  the  strap  and  began  cutting  it  into  little 
pieces. 

"There!  and  there!  and  there!"  he  said  with  each 
snip.  "An'  ye  hit  me  agin  there  may  be  no  mither  to 
save  ye." 

M'Adam  stood  huddling  in  the  corner.  He  shook  like 
an  aspen  leaf;  his  eyes  blazed  in  his  white  face;  and  he 
till  nursed  one  arm  with  the  other. 

"Honour  yer  father,"  he  quoted  in  small  low  voice. 


PART  IV 
THE  BLACK  KILLER 


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:=£"=*=! 


CHAPTER  XIV 


A  MAD  MAN 


TAMMAS  is  on  his  feet  in  the  tap-room  of  the  Arms, 
brandishing  a  pewter  mug. 

"Gen'lemen!"  he  cries,  his  old  face  flushed;  "I  gie 
you  a  toast.     Stan*  oop!" 

The  knot  of  Dalesmen  round  the  fire  rises  like  one.  The 
old  man  waves  his  mug  before  him,  reckless  of  the  good  ale 
that  drips  on  to  the  floor. 

"The  best  sheep-dog  i'  th'  North — Owd  Bob  o'  Ken- 
muir!"  he  cries.  In  an  instant  there  is  uproar:  the 
merry  applause  of  clinking  pewters;  the  stamping  of  feet; 
the  rattle  of  sticks.  Rob  Saunderson  and  old  Jonas  are 
cheering  with  the  best;  Tup  per  and  Ned  Hoppin  are 
bellowing  in  one  another's  ears;  Long  Kirby  and  Jem 
Burton  are  thumping  each  other  on  the  back;  even  Sam'l 
Todd  and  Sexton  Ross  are  roused  from  their  habitual 
melancholy. 

"Here's  to  Th'  Owd  Un!    Here's  to  oor  Bob!"  yell 

131 


132  A  MAD  MAN 

stentorian  voices;  while  Rob  Saunderson  has  jumped  on 
to  a  chair. 

"Wi'  the  best  sheep-dog  i'  th'  North  I  gie  yo'  the 
Shepherd's  Trophy! — won  outreet  as  will  be!"  he  cries. 
Instantly  the  clamour  redoubles. 

"The  Dale  Cup  and  Th'  Owd  Un!  The  Trophy  and 
oor  Bob!  Tp,  'ip,  for  the  gray  dogs!  'Ip,  'ip,  for  the 
best  sheep-dog  as  ever  was  or  will  be!     'Ooray,  'ooray!" 

It  is  some  minutes  before  the  noise  subsides;  and  slowly 
the  enthusiasts  resume  their  seats  with  hoarse  throats  and 
red  faces. 

"Gentlemen  a'!" 

A  little  unconsidered  man  is  standing  up  at  the  back  of 
the  room.  His  face  is  aflame,  and  his  hands  twitch  spas- 
modically; and,  in  front,  with  hackles  up  and  eyes  gleam- 
ing, is  a  huge,  bull-like  dog. 

"Noo,"  cries  the  little  man,  "I  daur  ye  to  repeat  that 
lie!" 

"Lie!"  screams  Tammas;  "lie!  Til  gie 'im  lie !  Lem- 
me  at  'im,  I  say!" 

The  old  man  in  his  fury  is  half  over  the  surrounding  ring 
of  chairs  before  Jim  Mason  on  the  one  hand  and  Jonas 
Maddox  on  the  other  can  pull  him  back. 

"Coom,  Mr.  Thornton,"  soothes  the  octogenarian, 
"let  un  be.  Yo'  surely  bain't  angered  by  the  likes  o' 
'im!" — and  he  jerks  contemptuously  toward  the  solitary 
figure  at  his  back. 

Tammas  resumes  his  seat  unwillingly. 

The  little  man  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room  remains 
silent,  waiting  for  his  challenge  to  be  taken  up.  It  is  in 
vain.  And  as  he  looks  at  the  range  of  broad,  impassive 
backs  turned  on  him,  he  smiles  bitterly. 


A  MAD  MAN  133 

"They  dursen't  Wullie,  not  a  man  of  them  a'!"  he 
cries.  "They're  one — two — three — four — eleven  to  one, 
Wullie,  and  yet  they  dursen't.  Eleven  of  them,  and  every 
man  a  coward !  Long  Kirby — Thornton — Tupper — Todd 
— Hoppin — Ross— Burton — and   the   rest,    and   not   one 

but's  a  bigger  man  nor  me,  and  }^et Weel,  we  might 

ha'  kent  it.  We  should  ha'  kent  Englishmen  by  noo. 
They're  aye  the  same  and  aye  have  bin.  They  tell  lies, 
black  lies " 

Tammas  is  again  half  out  his  chair,  and  only  forcibly 
restrained  by  the  men  on  either  hand. 

" and  then  they  ha'  na  the  courage  to  stan'  by  em. 

Ye're  English,  ivery  man  o'  ye,  to  yer  marrow." 

The  little  man's  voice  rises  as  he  speaks.  He  seizes 
the  tankard  from  the  table  at  his  side. 

"Englishmen!"  he  cries  waving  it  before  him.  "Here's 
a  health!  The  best  sheep-dog  as  iver  penned  a  flock — 
Adam  M 'Adam's  Red  Wull!" 

He  pauses,  the  pewter  at  his  lips,  and  looks  at  his 
audience  with  flashing  eyes.  There  is  no  response  from 
them. 

"Wullie,  here's  to  you!"  he  cries.  "Luck  and  life  to  ye, 
ma  trusty  fier !     Death  and  defeat  to  yer  enemies ! 

"'The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't;'" 

He  raises  the  tankard  and  drains  it  to  its  uttermost 
dreg. 

Then  drawing  himself  up,  he  addresses  his  audience 
once  more: 

"An'  noo  I'll  warn  ye  aince  and  for  a',  and  ye  may  tell 
James  Moore  I  said  it:     He  may  plot  agin  us,  Wullie  and 


134  A  MAD  MAN 

me;  he  may  threaten  us;  he  may  win  the  cup  outright 
for  his  muckle  favourite;  but  there  was  niver  a  man  or  dog 
yet  as  did  Adam  M'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull  a  hurt  but  in 
the  end  he  wush't  his  mither  hadna  borne  him." 

A  little  later,  and  he  walks  out  of  the  inn,  the  Tailless 
Tyke  at  his  heels. 

After  he  is  gone  it  is  Rob  Saunderson  who  says:  "The 
little  mon's  mad;  he'll  stop  at  nothin'";  and  Tammas 
who  answers: 

"Nay;  not  even  murder." 

The  little  man  had  aged  much  of  late.  His  hair  was 
quite  white,  his  eyes  unnaturally  bright,  and  his  hands 
were  never  still,  as  though  he  were  in  everlasting  pain. 
He  looked  the  picture  of  disease. 

After  Owd  Bob 's  second  victory  he  had  become  morose 
and  untalkative.  At  home  he  often  sat  silent  for  hours 
together,  drinking  and  glaring  at  the  place  where  the  Cup 
had  been.  Sometimes  he  talked  in  low,  eerie  voice  to 
Red  Wull;  and  on  two  occasions,  David,  turning,  suddenly 
had  caught  his  father  glowering  stealthily  at  him  with 
such  an  expression  on  his  face  as  chilled  the  boy's  blood. 
The  two  never  spoke  now;  and  David  held  this  silent, 
deadly  enmity  far  worse  than  the  old-time  perpetual  war- 
fare. 

It  was  the  same  at  the  Sylvester  Arms.  The  little  man 
sat  alone  with  Red  Wull,  exchanging  words  with  no  man, 
drinking  steadily,  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  only  now  and 
again  galvanized  into  sudden  action. 

Other  people  than  Tammas  Thornton  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  M'Adam  would  stop  at  nothing  in  the 
undoing  of  James  Moore  or  the  gray  dog.     They  said 


A  MAD  MAN  135 

drink  and  disappointment  had  turned  his  head;  that  he 
was  mad  and  dangerous.  And  on  New  Year 's  day  matters 
seemed  coming  to  a  crisis;  for  it  was  reported  that  in  the 
gloom  of  a  snowy  evening  he  had  drawn  a  knife  on  the 
Master  in  the  High  Street,  but  slipped  before  he  could 
accomplish  his  fell  purpose. 

Most  of  them  all,  David  was  haunted  with  an  ever- 
present  anxiety  as  to  the  little  man's  intentions.  The  boy 
even  went  so  far  as  to  warn  his  friend  against  his  father. 
But  the  Master  only  smiled  grimly. 

"Thank  ye,  lad/'  he  said.  "But  T  reck'n  we  can  'fend 
for  oorsel's,  Bob  and  I.     Eh,  Owd  Un?" 

Anxious  as  David  might  be,  he  was  not  so  anxious  as  to 
be  above  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  this  state  of  strained 
apprehension  to  work  on  Maggie's  fears. 

One  evening  he  was  escorting  her  home  from  church, 
when,  just  before  they  reached  the  larch  copse: 

"Goo'  sakes!  What's  that?"  he  ejaculated  in  horror- 
laden  accents,  starting  back. 

"What,  Davie?"  cried  the  girl,  shrinking  up  to  him  all 
in  a  tremble. 

"Couldna  say  for  sure.  It  mought  be  owt,  or  agin  it 
mought  be  nowt.  But  yo*  grip  my  arm,  I'll  grip  yo5 
waist." 

Maggie  demurred. 

"Canst  see  onythin'?"  she  asked,  still  in  a  flutter. 

"Be'indthe  'edge." 

"Wheer?" 

"Theert" — pointing  vaguely. 

"I  canna  see  nowt." 

"Why,  theer,  lass.  Can  yo*  not  see?  Then  yoJ  pit 
your   head    along   o*   mine — so — closer — closer."    Then, 


136  A  MAD  MAN 

in  aggrieved  tones:  "Whativer  is  the  matter  wi'  yo', 
wench?     I  might  be  a  leprosy." 

But  the  girl  was  walking  away  with  her  head  high  as  the 
snow-capped  Pike. 

"So  long  as  I  live,  David  M'Adam,"  she  cried,  "I'll 
niver  go  to  church  wi'  you  agin!" 

"Iss  but  you  will  though — onst,"  he  answered  low. 

Maggie  whisked  round  in  a  flash,  superbly  indignant. 

"What  d'yo'  mean,  sir-r-r?" 

"  Yo'  know  what  I  mean,  lass,"  he  replied  sheepish  and 
shuffling  before  her  queenly  anger. 

She  looked  him  up  and  down,  and  down  and  up  again. 

"I'll   niver   speak   to   you   agin,   Mr.   M'Adam,"  she 

cried;  "not  if  it  was  ever  so Nay,  I'll  walk  home  by 

myself,  thank  you.     I  '11  ha'  nowt  to  do  wi'  you." 

So  the  two  must  return  to  Kenmuir,  one  behind  the 
other,  like  a  lady  and  her  footman. 

David's  audacity  had  more  than  once  already  all  but 
caused  a  rupture  between  the  pair.  And  the  occurrence 
behind  the  hedge  set  the  cap  on  his  impertinences.  That 
was  past  enduring  and  Maggie  by  her  bearing  let  him 
know  it. 

David  tolerated  the  girl's  new  attitude  for  exactly 
twelve  minutes  by  the  kitchen  clock.  Then:  "Sulk  wi' 
me,  indeed!  I'll  teach  her!"  and  he  marched  out  of  the 
door,  "Niver  to  cross  it  agin,  ma  word!" 

Afterward,  however,  he  relented  so  far  as  to  continue 
his  visits  as  before;  but  he  made  it  clear  that  he  only  came 
to  see  the  Master  and  hear  of  Owd  Bob's  doings.  On 
these  occasions  he  loved  best  to  sit  on  the  window-sill 
outside  the  kitchen,  and  talk  and  chaff  with  Tammas  and 
the  men  in  the  yard,  feigning  an  uneasy  bashfulness  was 


A  MAD  MAN  137 

reference  made  to  Bessie  Bolstock.  And  after  sitting 
thus  for  some  time,  he  would  half  turn,  look  over  his 
shoulder,  and  remark  in  indifferent  tones  to  the  girl 
within:  "Oh,  good-evenin ' !  I  forgot  yo'," — and  then 
resume  his  conversation.  While  the  girl  within,  her  face 
a  little  pinker,  her  lips  a  little  tighter,  and  her  chin  a  little 
higher,  would  go  about  her  business,  pretending  neither  to 
hear  nor  care. 

The  suspicions  that  M'Adam  nourished  dark  designs 
against  James  Moore  were  somewhat  confirmed  in  that, 
on  several  occasions  in  the  bitter  dusks  of  January  after- 
noons, a  little  insidious  figure  was  reported  to  have  been 
seen  lurking  among  the  farm-buildings  of  Kenmuir. 

Once  Sam'l  Todd  caught  the  little  man  fairly,  skulking 
away  in  the  woodshed.  Sam'l  took  him  up  bodily  and 
carried  him  down  the  slope  to  the  Wastrel,  shaking  him 
gently  as  he  went. 

Across  the  stream  he  put  him  on  his  feet. 

"If  I  catches  yo'  cadgerin'  aroun'  the  farm  agin,  little 
mon,"  he  admonished,  holding  up  a  warning  finger; 
"I'll  tak'  yo'  and  drap  yo'  in  t'  Sheep-wash,  I  warn  yo' 
fair.  I'd  ha'  done  it  noo  an'  yo'd  bin  a  bigger  and  a 
younger  mon.  But  theer!  yo'm  sic  a  scrappety  bit. 
Noo,  rin  whoam."     And  the  little  man  slunk  silently  away. 

For  a  time  he  appeared  there  no  more.  Then,  one 
evening  when  it  was  almost  dark,  James  Moore,  going  the 
round  of  the  outbuildings,  felt  Owd  Bob  stiffen  against  his 
side. 

"What's  oop,  lad?"  he  whispered,  halting;  and,  drop- 
ping his  hand  on  the  old  dog's  neck  felt  a  rufF  of  rising  hair 
beneath  it. 

"Steady,    lad,    steady,"  he    whispered;  "what    is't?" 


i38  A  MAD  MAN 

He  peered  forward  into  the  gloom;  and  at  length  discerned 
a  little  familiar  figure  huddled  away  in  the  crevice  between 
two  stacks. 

"It's  yo',  is  it,  M'Adam?"  he  said,  and,  bending,  seized 
a  wisp  of  Owd  Bob's  coat  in  a  grip  like  a  vise. 

Then,  in  a  great  voice,  moved  to  rare  anger: 

"Oot  o'  this  afore  I  do  ye  a  hurt,  ye  meeserable  spyin' 
creetur!"  he  roared.  "Yo'  mun  wait  till  dark  cooms  to 
hide  yo',  yo'  coward,  afore  yo'  daur  coom  crawlin'  aboot 
ma  hoose,  frightenin '  the  women-folk  and  up  to  yer  devil- 
ments. If  yo've  owt  to  say  to  me,  coom  like  a  mon  in  the 
open  day.     Noo  git  afF  wi'  yo',  afore  I  lay  hands  to  yo' ! ' ' 

He  stood  there  in  the  dusk,  tall  and  mighty,  a  terrible 
figure,  one  hand  pointing  to  the  gate,  the  other  still 
grasping  the  gray  dog. 

The  little  man  scuttled  away  in  the  half-light,  and  out 
of  the  yard. 

On  the  plank-bridge  he  turned  and  shook  his  fist  at  the 
darkening  house. 

"Curse  ye,  James  Moore!"  he  sobbed,  "I'll  be  even  wi' 
ye  yet." 


CHAPTER  XV 


DEATH   ON   THE   MARSHES 


,N  THE  top  of  this  there  followed  an  attempt  to  poison 
Th'  Owd  Un.     At  least  there  was  no  other  account- 
ing for  the  affair. 

In  the  dead  of  a  long-remembered  night  James  Moore 
was  waked  by  a  low  moaning  beneath  his  room.  He  leapt 
out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the  window  to  see  his  favourite  drag- 
ging about  the  moonlit  yard,  the  dark  head  down,  the 
proud  tail  for  once  lowered,  the  lithe  limbs  wooden,  heavy, 
unnatural — altogether  pitiful. 

In  a  moment  he  was  downstairs  and  out  to  his  friend's 
assistance.  "Whativer  is't,  .Owd  Un?"  he  cried  in 
anguish. 

At  the  sound  of  that  dear  voice  the  old  dog  tried  to 
struggle  to  him,  could  not,  and  fell  whimpering. 

In  a  second  the  Master  was  with  him,  examining  him 
tenderly,  and  crying  for  Sam'l,  who  slept  above  the 
stables. 

139 


i4o  DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES 

There  was  every  symptom  of  foul  play:  the  tongue  was 
swollen  and  almost  black;  the  breathing  laboured;  the 
body  twitched  horribly;  and  the  soft  gray  eyes  all  blood- 
shot and  straining  in  agony. 

With  the  aid  of  Sam'l  and  Maggie,  drenching  first  and 
stimulants  after,  the  Master  pulled  him  around  for  the 
moment.  And  soon  Jim  Mason  and  Parson  Leggy, 
hurriedly  summoned,  came  running  hot-foot  to  the  res- 
cue. 

Prompt  and  stringent  measures  saved  the  victim — but 
only  just.  For  a  time  the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North  was 
pawing  at  the  Gate  of  Death.  In  the  end,  as  the  gray 
dawn  broke,  the  danger  passed. 

The  attempt  to  get  at  him,  if  attempt  it  was,  aroused 
passionate  indignation  in  the  countryside.  It  seemed 
the  culminating  point  of  the  excitement  long  bub- 
bling. 

There  were  no  traces  of  the  culprit;  not  a  vestige 
to  lead  to  incrimination,  so  cunningly  had  the  crim- 
inal accomplished  his  foul  task.  But  as  to  the  perpe- 
trator, if  there  where  no  proofs  there  were  yet  fewer 
doubts. 

At  the  Sylvester  Arms  Long  Kirby  asked  M'Adam 
point-blank  for  his  explanation  of  the  matter. 

"Hoo  do  I  'count  for  it?"  the  little  man  cried.  "I 
dinna  'count  for  it  ava." 

"Then  hoo  did  it  happen?"  asked  Tammas  with 
asperity. 

"I  dinna  believe  it  did  happen,"  the  little  man  replied. 
"It's  a  lee,  o'  James  Moore's — a  characteristic  lee." 
Whereon  they  chucked  him  out  incontinently;  for  the 
Terror  for  once  was  elsewhere. 


DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES  i4j 

Now  that  afternoon  is  to  be  remembered  for  threefold 
causes.  Firstly,  because,  as  has  been  said,  M'Adam  was 
alone.  Secondly,  because,  a  few  minutes  after  his 
ejectment,  the  window  of  the  tap-room  was  thrown  open 
from  without,  and  the  little  man  looked  in.  He  spoke  no 
word,  but  those  dim,  smouldering  eyes  of  his  wandered 
from  face  to  face,  resting  for  a  second  on  each,  as  if  to  burn 
them  on  his  memory.  "I'll  remember  ye,  gentlemen," 
he  said  at  length  quietly,  shut  the  window,  and  was  gone. 
Thirdly,  for  a  reason  now  to  be  told. 

Though  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  the  attempt  on  him, 
the  gray  dog  had  never  been  his  old  self  since.  He  had 
attacks  of  shivering;  his  vitality  seemed  sapped;  he  tired 
easily,  and,  great  heart,  would  never  own  it.  At  length 
on  this  day,  James  Moore,  leaving  the  old  dog  behind  him, 
had  gone  over  to  Grammoch-town  to  consult  Dingley,  the 
vet.  On  his  way  home  he  met  Jim  Mason  with  Gyp,  the 
faithful  Betsy's  unworthy  successor,  at  the  Dalesman's 
Daughter.  Together  they  started  for  the  long  tramp 
home  over  the  Marches.  And  that  journey  is  marked 
with  a  red  stone  in  this  story. 

All  day  long  the  hills  had  been  bathed  in  impenetrable 
fog.  Throughout  there  had  been  an  accompanying  drizzle; 
and  in  the  distance  the  wind  had  moaned  a  storm-menace. 
To  the  darkness  of  the  day  was  added  the  sombreness  of 
falling  night  as  the  three  began  the  ascent  of  the  Murk 
Muir  Pass.  By  the  time  they  emerged  into  the  Devil's 
Bowl  it  was  altogether  black  and  blind.  But  the  threat  of 
wind  had  passed,  leaving  utter  stillness;  and  they  could 
hear  the  splash  of  an  ott-r  on  the  far  side  of  the  Lone  Tarn 
as  they  skirted  that  gloomy  water's  edge.  When  at 
length  the  last  steep  rise  on  to  the  Marches  had  been 


142  DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES 

topped,  a  breath  of  soft  air  smote  them  lightly,  and  the 
curtain  of  fog  began  drifting  away. 

The  two  men  swung  steadily  through  the  heather  with 
that  reaching  stride  the  birthright  of  moor-men  and  high- 
landers.  They  talked  but  little,  for  such  was  their  nature, 
a  word  or  two  on  sheep  and  the  approaching  lambing-time; 
thence  on  to  the  coming  Trials;  the  Shepherds'  Trophy; 
Owd  Bob  and  the  attempt  on  him;  and  from  that  to 
M'Adam  and  the  Tailless  Tyke. 

"D'yo'  reck 'n  M'Adam  had  a  hand  in't?"  the  postman 
was  asking. 

"Nay;  there's  no  proof." 

"'Ceptin'  he's  mad  to  get  shut  o'  Th'  Owd  Un  afore 
Cup  Day." 

"  Tm  or  me — it  mak's  no  differ."  For  a  dog  is  dis- 
qualified from  competing  for  the  Trophy  who  has  changed 
hands  during  the  six  months  prior  to  the  meeting.  And 
this  holds  good  though  the  change  be  only  from  father  to 
son  on  the  decease  of  the  former. 

Jim  looked  up  inquiringly  at  his  companion. 

"D'yo'  think  it'll  coom  to  that?"  he  asked. 

"What?" 

"Why— murder." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  the  other  answered  grimly. 

The  fog  had  cleared  away  by  now,  and  the  moon 
was  up.  To  their  right,  on  the  crest  of  a  rise  some  two 
hundred  yards  away,  a  low  wood  stood  out  black 
against  the  sky.  As  they  passed  it,  a  blackbird  rose  up 
screaming,  and  a  brace  of  wood-pigeons  winged  noisily 
away. 

"Hullo!  hark  to  the  yammerin'!"  muttered  Jim,  stop- 
ping; "and  at  this  time  o'  night  too!" 


DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES  143 

Some  rabbits,  playing  in  the  moonlight  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  wood,  sat  up,  listened,  and  hopped  back  into 
security.  At  the  same  moment  a  big  hill-fox  slunk  out  of 
the  covert.  He  stole  a  pace  forward  and  halted,  listening 
with  one  ear  back  and  one  pad  raised;  then  cantered 
silently  away  in  the  gloom,  passing  close  to  the  two  men 
and  yet  not  observing  them. 

"What's  up,  I  wonder?"  mused  the  postman. 

"The  fox  set  'em  clackerin',  I  reck'n,"  said  the 
Master. 

"Not  he;  he  was  scared  'maist  oot  o'  his  skin,"  the 
other  answered.  Then  in  tones  of  suppressed  excitement, 
with  his  hands  on  James  Moore's  arm:  "And  look'ee, 
there's  ma  Gyp  a-beckonin'  on  us!" 

There,  indeed,  on  the  crest  of  the  rise  beside  the  wood, 
was  the  little  lurcher,  now  looking  back  at  his  master,  now 
creeping  stealthily  forward. 

"Ma  word!  theer's  summat  wrong  yonder!"  cried 
Jim,  and  jerked  the  post-bags  off  his  shoulder.  "Coom  on, 
Master!" — and  he  set  ofF  running  toward  the  dog;  while 
James  Moore,  himself  excited^now,  followed  with  an  agility 
that  belied  his  years. 

Some  score  yards  from  the  lower  edge  of  the  spinney, 
upon  the  farther  side  of  the  ridge,  a  tiny  beck  babbled 
through  its  bed  of  peat.  The  two  men,  as  they  topped  the 
rise,  noticed  a  flock  of  black-faced  mountain-sheep  cluster- 
ed in  the  dip  'twixt  wood  and  stream.  They  stood 
martialled  in  close  array,  facing  half  toward  the  wood,  half 
toward  the  newcomers,  heads  up,  eyes  glaring,  handsome 
as  sheep  only  look  when  scared. 

On  the  crest  of  the  ridge  the  two  men  halted  beside 
Gyp.    The  postman  stood  with  his  head  a  little  forward, 


i44  DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES 

listening  intently.  Then  he  dropped  in  the  heather  like  a 
dead  man,  pulling  the  other  with  him. 

"Doon,  mon!"  he  whispered,  clutching  at  Gyp  with  his 
spare  hand. 

"What  is't,  Jim?"  asked  the  Master,  now  thoroughly 
roused. 

"Summat  movin'  i'  th'  wood,"  the  other  whispered, 
listening  weasel-eared. 

So  they  lay  motionless  for  a  while;  but  there  came  no 
sound  from  the  copse. 

"  'Appen  'twas  nowt,"  the  postman  at  length  allowed, 
peering  cautiously  about.  "And  yet  I  thowt! — I  dunno 
reetly  what  I  thowt." 

Then,  starting  to  his  knees  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  terror: 
"Save  us!     what's  yon  theer?" 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  Master  raised  his  head  and 
noticed,  lying  in  the  gloom  between  them  and  the  array  of 
sheep,  a  still,  white  heap. 

James  Moore  was  a  man  of  deeds,  not  words. 

"It's  past  waitin'!"  he  said,  and  sprang  forward,  his 
heart  in  his  mouth. 

The  sheep  stamped  and  shuffled  as  he  came,  and  yet  did 
not  break. 

"Ah,  thanks  be!"  he  cried,  dropping  beside  the  motion- 
less body;  "it's  nob'but  a  sheep."  As  he  spoke  his  hands 
wandered  deftly  over  the  carcase.  "But  what's  this?" 
he  called.  "Stout1  she  was  as  me.  Look  at  her  fleece — 
crisp,  close,  strong;  feel  the  flesh — firm  as  a  rock.  And 
ne'er  a  bone  broke,  ne'er  a  scrat  on  her  body  a  pin 
could  mak'.  As  healthy  as  a  mon — and  yet  dead  as 
mutton!" 

^tout — hearty. 


DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES  145 

Jim,  still  trembling  from  the  horror  of  his  fear,  came  up, 
and  knelt  beside  his  friend. 

"Ah,  but  there's  bin  devilry  in  this!"  he  said;  "I 
reck'ned  they  sheep  had  bin  badly  skeared,  and  not  so 
long  agone." 

"Sheep-murder,  sure  enough!"  the  other  answered. 
"No  fox's  doin' — a  girt-grown  two-shear  as  could  'maist 
knock  a  h'ox." 

Jim's  hands  travelled  from  the  body  to  the  dead 
creature's  throat.     He  screamed. 

"By  gob,  Master!  Look  'ee  theer!"  He  held  his  hand 
up  in  the  moonlight,  and  it  dripped  red.  "And  warm  yet! 
warm !" 

"Tear  some  bracken,  Jim!"  ordered  the  other,  "and 
set  a-light.     We  mun  see  to  this." 

The  postman  did  as  bid.  For  a  moment  the  fern 
smouldered  and  smoked,  then  the  flame  ran  crackling  along 
and  shot  up  in  the  darkness,  weirdly  lighting  the  scene: 
to  the  right  the  low  wood,  a  block  of  solid  blackness 
against  the  sky;  in  front  the  wall  of  sheep,  staring  out  of 
the  gloom  with  bright  eyes;  and  as  centre-piece  that  still, 
white  body,  with  the  kneeling  men  and  lurcher  sniffing 
tentatively  round. 

The  victim  was  subjected  to  a  critical  examination. 
The  throat,  and  that  only,  had  been  hideously  mauled; 
from  the  raw  wounds  the  flesh,  hung  in  horrid  shreds;  on 
the  ground  all  about  were  little  pitiful  dabs  of  wool, 
wrenched  off  apparently  in  a  struggle;  and,  crawling 
among  the  fern-roots,  a  snake-like  track  of  red  led  down 
to  the  stream. 

"A  dog's  doin',  and  no  mistakin'  thot,"  said  Jim  at 
length,  after  a  minute  inspection. 


i46  DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES 

"Ay,"  declared  the  Master  with  slow  emphasis,  "and  a 
sheep-dog's  too,  and  an  old  un's,  or  I'm  no  shepherd." 

The  postman  looked  up. 

"Why  thot?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"Becos,"  the  Master  answered,  "  'im  as  did  this  killed 
for  blood — and  for  blood  only.  If  had  bin  ony  other  dog — 
greyhound,  bull,  tarrier,  or  even  a  young  sheep-dog — 
d'yo'  think  he'd  ha'  stopped  wi'  the  one?  Not  he;  he'd 
ha'  gone  through  'em,  and  be  runnin'  'em  as  like  as  not 
yet,  nippin'  'em,  pullin'  'em  down,  till  he'd  maybe  killed 
the  half.  But  'im  as  did  this  killed  for  blood,  I  say.  He 
got  it — -killed  just  the  one,  and  nary  touched  the  others, 
d'yo'  see,  Jim?" 

The  postman  whistled,  long  and  low. 

"It's  just  what  owd  Wrottesley'd  tell  on,"  he  said, 
"I  never  nob'but  half  believed  him  then — I  do  now  though. 
D'yo'  mind  what  th'  owd  lad'd  tell,  Master?" 

James  Moore  nodded. 

"Thot's  it.  I've  never  seen  the  like  afore  myself,  but 
I've  heard  ma  grandad  speak  o't  mony's  the  time.  An 
owd  dog '11  git  the  cravin '  for  sheep's  blood  on  him,  just  the 
same  as  a  mon  does  for  the  drink;  he  creeps  oot  o'  nights, 
gallops  afar,  hunts  his  sheep,  downs  'er,  and  satisfies  the 
cravin'.  And  he  nary  kills  but  the  one,  they  say,  for  he 
knows  the  vallie  o'  sheep  same  as  you  and  me.  He  has 
his  gallop,  quenches  the  thirst,  and  then  he's  for  home, 
maybe  a  score  mile  away,  and  no  one  the  wiser  i'  th' 
mornin'.  And  so  on,  till  he  cooms  to  a  bloody  death,  the 
murderin'  traitor." 

"If  he  does!"  said  Jim. 

"And  he  does,  they  say,  nigh  always.  For  he  gets 
bolder  and  bolder  wi'  not  bein'  caught,  until  one  fine 


DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES  147 

night  a  bullet  lets  light  into  him.  And  some  mon  gets 
knocked  nigh  endways  when  they  bring  his  best  tyke  home 
i'  th'  mornin'  dead,  wi'  the  sheep's  wool  yet  stickin'  in 
his  mouth." 

The  postman  whistled  again. 

"  It's  what  owd  Wrottesley  'd  tell  on  to  a  tick.  And  he'd 
say,  if  ye  mind,  Master,  as  hoo  the  dog'd  niver  kill  his 
master's  sheep — kind  o'  conscience-like." 

"Ay,  I've  heard  that,"  said  the  Master.  "Queer  too, 
and  'im  bein'  such  a  bad  un!" 

Jim  Mason  rose  slowly  from  his  knees. 

"Ma  word,"  he  said,  "I  wish  Th'  Owd  Un  was  here. 
He'd  'appen  show  us  summat!" 

"I  nob'but  wish  he  was,  pore  owd  lad!"  said  the  Master. 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  crash  in  the  wood  above  them; 
a  sound  as  of  some  big  body  bursting  furiously  through 
brushwood. 

The  two  men  rushed  to  the  top  of  the  rise.  In  the 
darkness  they  could  see  nothing;  only,  standing  still  and 
holding  their  breaths,  they  could  hear  the  faint  sound, 
ever  growing  fainter,  of  some  creature  splashing  in  a  hasty 
gallop  over  the  wet  moors. 

"Yon's  him!  Yon's  no  fox,  I'll  tak'  oath.  And  a  main 
big  un,  too,  hark  to  him!"  cried  Jim.  Then  to  Gyp,  who 
had  rushed  off  in  hot  pursuit:  "Coom  back,  chunk- 'ead. 
What's  use  o'  you  agin  a  gallopin'  'potamus?" 

Gradually  the  sounds  died  away  and  away,  and  were  no 
more. 

"Thot's  'im  the  devil!"  said  the  Master  at  length. 

"Nay;  the  devil  has  a  tail,  they  do  say,"  replied  Jim 
thoughtfully.  For  already  the  light  of  suspicion  was 
focussing  its  red  glare. 


148 


DEATH  ON  THE  MARSHES 


"Noo  I  reck'n  we're  in  for  bloody  times  amang  the 
sheep  for  a  while,"  said  the  Master,  as  Jim  picked  up  his 
bags. 

"Better  a  sheep  nor  a  mon,"  answered  the  postman, 
still  harping  on  the  old  theme. 


~^2Z=7  ^tzZ 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE    BLACK   KILLER 

THAT,  as  James  Moore  had  predicted,  was  the  first 
only  of  a  long  succession  of  such  solitary  crimes. 

Those  who  have  not  lived  in  a  desolate  country  like  that 
about  the  Muir  Pike,  where  sheep  are  paramount  and 
every  other  man  engaged  in  the  profession  pastoral,  can 
barely  imagine  the  sensation  aroused.  In  market  place, 
tavern,  or  cottage,  the  subject  of  conversation  was  always 
the  latest  sheep-murder  and  the  yet-undetected  criminal. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  lull,  and  the  shepherds 
would  begin  to  breathe  more  freely.  Then  there  would 
come  a  stormy  night,  when  the  heavens  were  veiled  in  the 
cloak  of  crime,  and  the  wind  moaned  fitfully  over  meres 
and  marches,  and  another  victim  would  be  added  to  the 
lengthening  list. 

It  was  always  such  black  nights,  nights  of  wind  and 
weather,  when  no  man  would  be  abroad,  that  the  murderer 
chose  for  his  bloody  work;  and  that  was  how  he  became 

149 


IS©  THE  BLACK  KILLER 

known  from  the  Red  Screes  to  the  Muir  Pike  as  the  Black 
Killer.  In  the  Daleland  they  still  call  a  wild,  wet  night 
"A  Black  Killer's  night";  for  they  say:  "His  ghaist'll  be 
oot  the  night." 

There  was  hardly  a  farm  in  the  countryside  but  was 
marked  with  the  seal  of  blood.  Kenmuir  escaped,  and  the 
Grange;  Rob  Saunderson  at  the  Holt,  and  Tupper  at 
Swinsthwaite;  and  they  were  about  the  only  lucky  ones. 

As  for  Kenmuir,  Tammas  declared  with  a  certain  grim 
pride:  "He  knows  better 'n  to  coom  wheer  Th'  Owd  Un 
be."  Whereat  M'Adam  was  taken  with  a  fit  of  internal 
spasms,  rubbing  his  knees  and  cackling  insanely  for  a  half- 
hour  afterward.  And  as  for  the  luck  of  the  Grange — well, 
there  was  a  reason  for  that  too,  so  the  Dalesmen   said. 

Though  the  area  of  crime  stretched  from  the  Black 
Water  to  Grammoch-town,  twenty-odd  miles,  there  was 
never  a  sign  of  the  perpetrator.  The  Killer  did  his  bloody 
work  with  a  thoroughness  and  a  devilish  cunning  that 
defied  detection. 

It  was  plain  that  each  murder  might  be  set  down  to  the 
same  agency.  Each  was  stamped  with  the  same  un- 
mistakable sign-manual:  one  sheep  killed,  its  throat  torn 
into  red  ribands,  and  the  others  untouched. 

It  was  at  the  instigation  of  Parson  Leggy  that  the  squire 
imported  a  bloodhound  to  track  the  Killer  to  his  doom. 
Set  on  at  a  fresh  killed  carcase  at  the  One  Tree  Knowe,  he 
carried  the  line  a  distance  in  the  direction  of  the  Muir 
Pike;  then  was  thrown  out  by  a  little  bustling  beck,  and 
never  acknowledged  the  scent  again.  Afterward  he 
became  unmanageable,  and  could  be  no  further  utilized. 
Then  there  was  talk  of  inducing  Tommy  Dobson  and  his 
pack  to  come  over  from  Eskdale,  but  that  came  to  nothing. 


THE  BLACK  KILLER  iSi 

The  Master  of  the  Border  Hunt  lent  a  couple  of  foxhounds, 
who  effected  nothing;  and  there  were  a  hundred  other  at- 
tempts and  as  many  failures.  Jim  Mason  set  a  cunning  trap 
or  two  and  caught  his  own  bob-tailed  tortoise-shell  and  a 
terrible  wigging  from  his  missus;  Ned  Hoppin  sat  up  with  a 
gun  two  nights  over  a  new  slain  victim  and  Londesley  of  the 
Home  Farm  poisoned  a  carcase.  But  the  Killer  never  re- 
turned to  the  kill,  and  went  about  in  the  midst  of  them  all, 
carrying  on  his  infamous  traffic  and  laughing  up  his  sleeve. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Dalesmen  raged  and  swore 
vengeance;  their  impotence,  their  unsuccess,  and  their 
losses  heating  their  wrath  to  madness.  And  the  bitterest 
sting  of  it  all  lay  in  this;  that  though  they  could  not 
detect  him,  they  were  nigh  to  positive  as  to  the  culprit. 

Many  a  time  was  the  Black  Killer  named  in  low-voiced 
conclave;  many  a  time  did  Long  Kirby,  as  he  stood  in  the 
Border  Ram  and  watched  M'Adam  and  the  Terror 
walking  down  the  High,  nudge  Jim  Mason  and  whisper: 

"Theer's  the  Killer — oneasy  be  his  grave!"  To  which 
practical  Jim  always  made  the  same  retort: 

"Ay,  theer's  the  Killer;  but  wheer's  the  proof?" 

And  therein  lay  the  crux.  There  was  scarcely  a  man 
in  the  countryside  who  doubted  the  guilt  of  the  Tailless 
Tyke;  but,  as  Jim  said,  where  was  the  proof?  They 
could  but  point  to  his  well-won  nickname;  his  evil 
notoriety;  say  that,  magnificent  sheep-dog  as  he  was,  he 
was  known  even  in  his  work  as  a  rough  handler  of  stock; 
and  lastly  remark  significantly  that  the  Grange  was  one  of 
the  few  farms  that  had  so  far  escaped  unscathed.  For 
with  the  belief  that  the  Black  Killer  was  a  sheep-dog  they 
held  it  as  an  article  of  faith  that  he  would  in  honour  spare 
his  master's  flock. 


i«j2  THE  BLACK  KILLER 

There  may,  indeed,  have  been  prejudice  in  their  judg- 
ment. For  each  had  his  private  grudge  against  the  Terror; 
and  nigh  every  man  bore  on  his  own  person,  or  his  clothes, 
or  on  the  body  of  his  dog,  the  mark  of  that  huge  savage. 

Proof? 

"Why,  he  near  killed  ma  Lassie!"  cries  Londesley. 

"And  he  did  kill  the  Wexer!" 

"AndWanTromp!" 

"And  see  pore  old  Wenus!"  says  John  Swan,  and  pulls 
out  that  fair  Amazon,  battered  almost  past  recognition, 
but  a  warrioress  still. 

"That's  Red  Wull— bloody  be  his  end!" 

"And  he  laid  ma  Rasper  by  for  nigh  three  weeks!" 
continues  Tupper,  pointing  to  the  yet-unhealed  scars  on 
the  neck  of  the  big  bobtail.     "See  thisey — his  work." 

"And  look  here!"  cries  Saunderson,  exposing  a  ragged 
wound  on  Shep's  throat;  "thot's  the  Terror — black  be  his 
fa'!" 

"Ay,"  says  Long  Kirby  with  an  oath;  "the  tykes  love 
him  nigh  as  much  as  we  do." 

"Yes,"  says  Tammas.     "Yo' jest  watch!" 

The  old  man  slips  out  of  the  tap-room;  and  in  another 
moment  from  the  road  without  comes  a  heavy,  regular 
pat-pat-pat,  as  of  some  big  creature  approaching,  and, 
blending  with  the  sound,  little  shuffling  footsteps. 

In  an  instant  every  dog  in  the  room  has  risen  to  his  feet 
and  stands  staring  at  the  door  with  sullen,  glowing  eyes; 
lips  wrinkling,  bristles  rising,  throats  rumbling. 

An  unsteady  hand  fumbles  at  the  door;  a  reedy  voice 
calls,  "Wullie,  come  here!"  and  the  dogs  move  away,  surly 
to  either  side  the  fireplace,  tails  down,  ears  back,  grumbling 
still;  the  picture  of  cowed  passion. 


THE  BLACK  KILLER  153 

Then  the  door  opens;  Tammas  enters,  grinning;  and 
each,  after  a  moment's  scrutiny,  resumes  his  former 
position  before  the  fire. 


Meanwhile  over  M'Adam,  seemingly  all  unsuspicious  of 
these  suspicions,  a  change  had  come.  Whether  it  was  that 
for  the  time  he  heard  less  of  the  best  sheep-dog  in  the 
North,  or  for  some  more  occult  reason,  certain  it  is  that  he 
became  his  old  self.  His  tongue  wagged  as  gayly  and 
bitterly  as  ever,  and  hardly  a  night  passed  but  he  in- 
furiated Tammas  almost  to  blows  with  his  innuendoes  and 
insidious  sarcasms. 

Old  Jonas  Maddox,  one  evening  at  the  Sylvester  Arms, 
inquired  of  him  what  his  notion  was  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  Killer. 

"I  hae  ma  suspicions,  Mr.  Maddox;  I  hae  ma  sus- 
picions," the  little  man  replied,  cunningly  wagging  his 
head  and  giggling.  But  more  than  that  they  could  not 
elicit  from  him.     A  week  later,  however,  to  the  question: 

"And  what  are  yo'  thinkin'  o'  this  black  Killer,  Mr. 
M'Adam?" 

"Why  black?"  the  little  man  asked  earnestly;  "why 
black  mair  than  white — or  gray,  we'll  say?"  Luckily  for 
him,  however,  the  Dalesmen  are  slow  of  wit  as  of  speech. 

David,  too,  marked  the  difference  in  his  father,  who 
nagged  at  him  now  with  all  the  old  spirit.  At  first  he 
rejoiced  in  the  change,  preferring  this  outward  and  open 
warfare  to  that  aforetime  stealthy  enmity.  But  soon  he 
almost  wished  the  other  back;  for  the  older  he  grew  the 
more  difficult  did  he  find  it  to  endure  calmly  these  ever- 
lasting bickerings. 


154  THE  BLACK  KILLER 

For  one  reason  he  was  truly  glad  of  the  altered  condition 
of  affairs;  he  believed  that,  for  the  nonce,  at  least,  his 
father  had  abandoned  any  ill  designs  he  might  have 
cherished  against  James  Moore;  those  sneaking  night- 
visits  to  Kenmuir  were,  he  hoped,  discontinued. 

Yet  Maggie  Moore,  had  she  been  on  speaking  terms  with 
him,  could  have  undeceived  him.  For,  one  night,  when 
alone  in  the  kitchen,  on  suddenly  looking  up,  she  had  seen 
to  her  horror  a  dim,  moonlike  face  glued  against  the 
window-pane.  In  the  first  mad  panic  of  the  moment  she 
almost  screamed,  and  dropped  her  work;  then — a  true 
Moore — controlled  herself  and  sat  feigning  to  work,  yet 
watching  all  the  while. 

It  was  M'Adam,  she  recognized  that:  the  face  pale  m 
its  framework  of  black;  the  hair  lying  dank  and  dark  on 
his  forehead;  and  the  white  eyelids  blinking,  slow,  regular, 
horrible.  She  thought  of  the  stories  she  had  heard  of  his 
sworn  vengeance  on  her  father,  and  her  heart  stood  still, 
though  she  never  moved.  At  length  with  a  gasp  of  relief 
she  discerned  that  the  eyes  were  not  directed  on  her. 
Stealthily  following  their  gaze,  she  saw  they  rested  on  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy;  and  on  the  Cup  they  remained  fixed, 
immovable,  while  she  sat  motionless  and  watched. 

An  hour,  it  seemed  to  her,  elapsed  before  they  shifted 
their  direction,  and  wandered  round  the  room.  For  a 
second  they  dwelt  upon  her;  then  the  face  withdrew  into 
the  night. 

Maggie  told  no  one  what  she  had  seen.  Knowing  well 
how  terrible  her  father  was  in  anger,  she  deemed  it  wiser 
to  keep  silence.  While  as  for  David  M'Adam,  she  would 
never  speak  to  him  again! 

And  not  for  a  moment  did  that  young  man  surmise 


THE  BLACK  KILLER  i55 

whence  his  father  came  when,  on  the  night  in  question, 
M'Adam  returned  to  the  Grange,  chuckling  to  himself. 
David  was  growing  of  late  accustomed  to  these  fits  of 
silent,  unprovoked  merriment;  and  when  his  father  began 
giggling  and  muttering  to  Red  Wull,  at  first  he  paid  no 
heed. 

"He!  he!  Wullie.  Aiblins  we'll  beat  him  yet.  There's 
many  a  slip  twixt  Cup  and  lip — eh,  Wullie,  he!  he!" 
And  he  made  allusion  to  the  flourishing  of  the  wicked  and 
their  fall;  ending  always  with  the  same  refrain:  "He! 
he!  Wullie.     Aiblins  we'll  beat  him  yet." 

In  this  strain  he  continued  until  David,  his  patience 
exhausted,  asked  roughly: 

"What  is't  yo'  mumblin'  aboot?  Wha  is  it  yo'll  beat, 
you  and  yer  Wullie  ?" 

The  lad's  tone  was  as  contemptuous  as  his  words, 
Long  ago  he  had  cast  aside  any  semblance  of  respect  for 
his  father. 

M  'Adam  only  rubbed  his  knees  and  giggled. 

"Hark  to  the  dear  lad,  Wullie!  Listen  hoo  pleasantly 
he  addresses  his  auld  dad!"  Then  turning  on  his  son, 
and  leering  at  him:  "Wha  is  it,  ye  ask?  Wha  should  it 
be  but  the  Black  Killer?  Wha  else  is  there  I'd  be  wushin* 
to  hurt?" 

"The  Black  Killer!"  echoed  the  boy,  and  looked  at  his 
father  in  amazement. 

Now  David  was  almost  the  only  man  in  Wastrel-dale 
who  denied  Red  Wull's  identity  with  the  Killer.  "Nay," 
he  said  once;  "he'd  kill  me,  given  half  a  chance,  but  a 
sheep — no."  Yet,  though  himself  of  this  opinion,  he 
knew  well  what  the  talk  was,  and  was  astonished  accord- 
ingly at  his  father's  remark. 


156  THE  BLACK  KILLER 

"The  Black  Killer,  is  it?  What  d'you  know  o'  the 
Killer?"  he  inquired. 

"Why  black,  I  wad  ken?  Why  black?"  the  little  man 
asked,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair. 

Now  David,  though  repudiating  in  the  village  Red 
Wull's  complicity  with  the  crimes,  at  home  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  casting  cunning  innuendoes  to  that  effect. 

"What  would  you  have  him  then?"  he  asked.  "Red, 
yaller,  muck-dirt  colour?" — and  he  stared  significantly  at 
the  Tailless  Tyke,  who  was  lying  at  his  master's  feet. 
The  little  man  ceased  rubbing  his  knees  and  eyed  the  boy. 
David  shifted  uneasily  beneath  that  dim,  persistent  stare. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  length  gruffly. 

The  little  man  giggled,  and  his  two  thin  hands  took  up 
their  task  again. 

"Aiblins  his  puir  auld  doited  fool  of  a  dad  kens  mair 
than  the  dear  lad  thinks  for,  ay,  or  wushes — eh,  Wullie, 
he!  he!" 

"Then  what  is  it  you  do  know,  or  think  yo'  know?" 
David  asked  irritably. 

The  little  man  nodded  and  chuckled. 

"Naethin'  ava,  laddie,  naethin'  worth  the  mention. 
Only  aiblins  the  Killer'll  be  caught  afore  sae  lang." 

David  smiled  incredulously,  wagging  his  head  in 
offensive  scepticism. 

"Yo'll  catch  him  yo'self,  I  s'pose,  you  and  yer  Wullie? 
Tak'  a  chair  on  to  the  Marches,  whistle  a  while,  and  when 
the  Killer  comes,  why!  pit  a  pinch  o'  salt  upon  his  tail — 
if  he  has  one." 

At  the  last  words,  heavily  punctuated  by  the  speaker 
the  little  man  stopped  his  rubbing  as  though  shot. 

"What  wad  ye  mean  by  that?"  he  asked  softly. 


THE  BLACK  KILLER  157 

"What  wad  I?"  the  boy  replied. 

"I  dinna  ken  for  sure,"  the  little  man  answered;  "and 
it's  aiblins  just  as  well  for  you,  dear  lad" — in  fawning 
accents — "that  I  dinna."  He  began  rubbing  and  giggling 
afresh.  "It's  a  gran'  thing,  Wullie,  to  ha'  a  dutiful  son; 
a  shairp  lad  wha  has  no  silly  sense  o'  shame  aboot  sharpen- 
in'  his  wits  at  his  auld  dad's  expense.  And  yet,  despite  oor 
facetious  lad  there,  aiblins  we  will  ha'  a  hand  in  the  Killer's 
catchin',  you  and  I,  Wullie — he!  he!"  And  the  great 
dog  at  his  feet  wagged  his  stump  tail  in  reply. 

David  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  across  the  room  to 
where  his  father  sat. 

"Ifyo'  know  sic  a  mighty  heap,"  he  shouted,  "happen 
yo'll  just  tell  me  what  yo'  do  know!" 

M'Adam  stopped  stroking  Red  Wull's  massive  head, 
and  looked  up. 

"Tell  ye  ?  Ay,  wha  should  I  tell  if  not  ma  dear  David  ? 
Tell?  Ay,  I'll  tell  ye  this" — with  a  sudden  snarl  of 
bitterness — "that  you'd  be  the  vairy  last  person  I  wad  tell." 


CHAPTER  XVII 


A   MAD   DOG 

DAVID  and  Maggie,  meanwhile,  were  drifting  further 
and  further  apart.  He  now  thought  the  girl  took 
too  much  upon  herself;  that  this  assumption  of  the 
woman  and  the  mother  was  overdone.  Once,  on  a 
Sunday,  he  caught  her  hearing  Andrew  his  catechism. 
He  watched  the  performance  through  a  crack  in  the  door, 
listened,  giggling,  to  her  simple  teaching.  At  length  his 
merriment  grew  so  boisterous  that  she  looked  up,  saw  him, 
and,  straightway  rising  to  her  feet,  crossed  the  room  and 
shut  the  door;  tendering  her  unspoken  rebuke  with  such  a 
sweet  dignity  that  he  slunk  away  for  once  decently 
ashamed.  And  the  incident  served  to  add  point  to  his 
hostility. 

Consequently  he  was  seldom  at  Kenmuir,  and  more 
often  at  home,  quarrelling  with  his  father. 

Since  that  day,  two  years  before,  when  the  boy  had  been 

1*8 


A  MAD  DOG  159 

an  instrument  in  the  taking  of  the  Cup  from  him,  father 
and  son  had  been  like  two  vessels  charged  with  electricity, 
contact  between  which  might  result  at  any  moment 
in  a  shock  and  a  flash.  This  was  the  outcome  not  of  a 
moment,  but  of  years. 

Of  late  the  contest  had  raged  markedly  fierce;  for 
M'Adam  noticed  his  son's  more  frequent  presence  at  home, 
and  commented  on  the  fact  in  his  usual  spirit  of  playful 
raillery. 

"What's  come  to  ye,  David?"  he  asked  one  day. 
"Yer  auld  dad's  head  is  nigh  turned  wi'  yer  condescension. 
Is  James  Moore  feared  ye '11  steal  the  Cup  fra  him,  as  ye 
stole  it  from  me,  that  he'll  not  ha'  ye  at  Kenmuir?  or 
what  is  it?" 

"I  thought  I  could  maybe  keep  an  eye  on  the  Killer 
gin  I  stayed  here,"  David  answered,  leering  at  Red  Wull. 

"Ye'd  do  better  at  Kenmuir — eh,  Wullie!"  the  little 
man  replied. 

"Nay,"  the  other  answered,  "he'll  not  go  to  Kenmuir. 
There's  Th'  Owd  Un  to  see  to  him  there  o'  nights." 

The  little  man  whipped  round. 

"Are  ye  so  sure  he  is  there  o'  nights,  ma  lad?"  he  asked 
with  slow  significance. 

"He  was  there  when  some  one — I  dinna  say  who, 
though  I  have  ma  thoughts — tried  to  poison  him,"  sneered 
the  boy,  mimicking  his  father's  manner. 

M'Adam  shook  his  head. 

"If  he  was  poisoned,  and  noo  I  think  aiblins  he  was,  he 
didna  pick  it  up  at  Kenmuir,  I  tell  ye  that,"  he  said,  and 
marched  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Black  Killer  pursued  his  bloody 
trade  unchecked.    The  public,  always  greedy  of  a  new 


160  A  MAD  DOG 

sensation,  took  up  the  matter.  In  several  of  the  great 
dailies,  articles  on  the  "Agrarian  Outrages"  appeared, 
followed  by  lengthy  correspondence.  Controversy  raged 
high;  each  correspondent  had  his  own  theory  and  his  own 
solution  of  the  problem;  and  each  waxed  indignant  as  his 
were  discarded  for  another's. 

The  Terror  had  reigned  already  two  months  when, 
with  the  advent  of  the  lambing-time,  matters  took  a  yet 
more  serious  aspect. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  lose  one  sheep,  often  the  finest  in 
the  pack;  but  the  hunting  of  a  flock  at  a  critical  moment, 
which  was  incidental  to  the  slaughter  of  the  one,  the 
scaring  of  these  woolly  mothers-about-to-be  almost  out  of 
their  fleeces,  spelt  for  the  small  farmers  something  akin  to 
ruin,  for  the  bigger  ones  a  loss  hardly  bearable. 

Such  a  woful  season  had  never  been  known;  loud  were 
the  curses,  deep  the  vows  of  revenge.  Many  a  shepherd 
at  that  time  patrolled  all  night  through  with  his  dogs, 
only  to  find  in  the  morning  that  the  Killer  had  slipped  him 
and  havocked  in  some  secluded  portion  of  his  beat. 

It  was  heartrending  work;  and  all  the  more  so  in  that 
though  his  incrimination  seemed  as  far  off  as  ever,  there 
was  still  the  same  positiveness  as  to  the  culprit's  iden- 
tity. 

Long  Kirby,  indeed,  greatly  daring,  went  so  far  on  one 
occasion  as  to  say  to  the  little  man:  "And  d'yo'  reck'n 
the  Killer  is  a  sheep-dog,  M'Adam?" 

"I  do,"  the  little  man  replied  with  conviction. 

"And  that  he'll  spare  his  own  sheep?" 

"Niver  a  doubt  of  it." 

"Then,"  said  the  smith  with  a  nervous  cackle,  "it 
must  lie  between  you  and  Tupper  and  Saunderson." 


A  MAD  DOG  161 

The  little  man  leant  forward  and  tapped  the  other  on 
the  arm. 

"Or  Kenmuir,  ma  friend,"  he  said.  "  Ye've  forgot  Ken- 
muir." 

"So  I  have,"  laughed  the  smith,  "so  I  have." 

"Then  I'd  not  anither  time,"  the  other  continued,  still 
tapping.     "  I'd  mind  Kenmuir,  d  'ye  see,  Kirby  ?" 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  lambing-time,  when  the 
Killer  was  working  his  worst,  that  the  Dalesmen  had  a 
lurid  glimpse  of  Adam  M  'Adam  as  he  might  be  were  he 
wounded  through  his  Wullie. 

Thus  it  came  about:  It  was  market-day  in  Grammoch- 
town,  and  in  the  Border  Ram  old  Rob  Saunderson  was  the 
centre  of  interest.  For  on  the  previous  night  Rob,  who 
till  then  had  escaped  unscathed,  had  lost  a  sheep  to  thfc 
Killer:  and — far  worse — his  flock  of  Herdwicks,  heavy 
in  lamb,  had  been  galloped  with  disastrous  consequences. 

The  old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  was  telling  how  on 
four  nights  that  week  he  had  been  up  with  Shep  to  guard 
against  mishap;  and  on  the  fifth,  worn  out  with  his  double 
labour,  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  post.  But  a  very  little  while 
he  slumbered;  yet  when,  in  the  dawn,  he  woke  and  hurried 
on  his  rounds,  he  quickly  came  upon  a  mangled  sheep  and 
the  pitiful  relic  of  his  flock.  A  relic,  indeed!  For  all 
about  were  cold  wee  lambkins  and  their  mothers,  dead  and 
dying  of  exhaustion  and  their  unripe  travail — a  slaughter 
of  the  innocents. 

The  Dalesmen  were  clustered  round  the  old  shepherd 
listening  with  lowering  countenances,  when  a  dark  gray 
head  peered  in  at  the  door  and  two  wistful  eyes  dwelt  for  a 
moment  on  the  speaker. 


162  A  MAD  DOG 

"Talk  o*  the  devil!"  muttered  M'Adam,  but  no  man 
heard  him.  For  Red  Wull,  too,  had  seen  that  sad  face, 
and,  rising  from  his  master's  feet,  had  leapt  with  a  roar  at 
his  enemy,  toppling  Jim  Mason  like  a  ninepin  in  the  fury 
of  his  charge. 

In  a  second  every  dog  in  the  room,  from  the  battered 
Venus  to  Tupper's  big  Rasper,  was  on  his  feet,  bristling  to 
have  at  the  tyrant  and  wipe  out  past  injuries,  if  the  gray 
dog  would  but  lead  the  dance. 

It  was  not  to  be,  however.  For  Long  Kirby  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door  with  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  in  his  hand. 
Barely  had  he  greeted  the  gray  dog  with — 

"'Ullo,  Owd  Un!"  when  hoarse  yells  of  "'Ware,  lad! 
The  Terror!"  mingled  with  Red  Wull's  roar. 

Half  turning,  he  saw  the  great  dog  bounding  to  the 
attack.  Straightway  he  flung  the  boiling  contents  of  his 
cup  full  in  that  rage-wracked  countenance.  The  burning 
liquid  swished  against  the  huge  bull-head.  Blinding, 
bubbling,  scalding,  it  did  its  fell  work  well;  nothing 
escaped  that  merciless  torrent.  With  a  cry  of  agony,  half 
bellow,  half  howl,  Red  Wull  checked  in  his  charge.  From 
without  the  door  was  banged  to;  and  again  the  duel  was 
postponed.  While  within  the  tap-room  a  huddle  of  men 
and  dogs  were  left  alone  with  a  mad  man  and  a  madder 
brute. 

Blind,  demented,  agonized,  the  Tailless  Tyke  thundered 
about  the  little  room  gnashing,  snapping,  oversetting; 
men,  tables,  chairs  swirled  off  their  legs  as  though  they  had 
been  dolls.  He  spun  round  like  a  monstrous  teetotum; 
he  banged  his  tortured  head  against  the  wall;  he  burrowed 
into  the  unyielding  floor.  And  all  the  while  M'Adam 
pattered  after  him,  laying  hands  upon  him  only  to  be 


A  MAD  DOG  163 

flung  aside  as  a  terrier  flings  a  rat.  Now  up,  now  down 
again,  now  tossed  into  a  corner,  now  dragged  upon  the 
floor,  yet  always  following  on  and  crying  in  supplicating 
tones,  "Wullie,  Wullie,  let  me  to  ye!  let  yer  man  ease  ye!" 

and  then,  with  a  scream  and  a  murderous  glance,  "  By , 

Kirby,  I'll  deal  wi'  you  later!" 

The  uproar  was  like  hell  let  loose.  You  could  hear  the 
noise  of  oaths  and  blows,  as  the  men  fought  for  the  door,  a 
half-mile  away.  And  above  it  the  horrid  bellowing  and 
the  screaming  of  that  shrill  voice. 

Long  Kirby  was  the  first  man  out  of  that  murder-hole; 
and  after  him  the  others  toppled  one  by  one — men  and 
dogs  jostling  one  another  in  the  frenzy  of  their  fear.  Big 
Bell,  Londesley,  Tupper,  Hoppin,  Teddy  Bolstock,  white- 
faced  and  trembling;  and  old  Saunderson  they  pulled  out 
by  his  heels.  Then  the  door  was  shut  with  a  clang,  and 
the  little  man  and  mad  dog  were  left  alone. 

In  the  street  was  already  a  big-eyed  crowd,  attracted  by 
the  uproar;  while  at  the  door  was  James  Moore,  seeking 
entrance.  "Happen  I  could  lend  the  little  mon  a  hand," 
said  he;  but  they  withheld  him  forcibly. 

Inside  was  pandemonium:  hangings  like  the  doors  of 
hell;  the  bellowing  of  that  great  voice;  the  patter  of  little 
feet;  the  slithering  of  a  body  on  the  floor;  and  always  that 
shrill,  beseeching  prayer:  "Wullie,  Wullie,  let  me  to  ye!" 
and,  in  a  scream,  "By ,  Kirby,  I'll  be  wi'  ye  soon!" 

Jim  Mason  it  was  who  turned,  at  length,  to  the  smith 
and  whispered,  "  Kirby,  lad,  yo'd  best  skip  it." 

The  big  man  obeyed  and  ran.  The  stamp-stamp  of  his 
feet  on  the  hard  road  rang  above  the  turmoil.  As  the 
long  legs  vanished  round  the  corner  and  the  sound  of  the 
fugitive  died  away,  a  panic  seized  the  listening  crowd. 


164  A  MAD  DOG 

A  woman  shrieked;  a  girl  fainted;  and  in  two  minutes 
the  street  was  as  naked  of  men  as  the  steppes  of  Russia  in 
winter:  here  a  white  face  at  a  window;  there  a  door  ajar, 
and  peering  round  a  far  corner  a  frightened  boy.  One  man 
only  scorned  to  run.  Alone,  James  Moore  stalked  down 
the  centre  of  the  road,  slow  and  calm,  Owd  Bob  trotting  at 
his  heels. 

It  was  a  long  half-hour  before  the  door  of  the  inn  burst 
open,  and  M'Adam  came  out  with  a  run,  flinging  the  door 
behind  him. 

He  rushed  into  the  middle  of  the  road;  his  sleeves  were 
rolled  at  the  wrist  like  a  surgeon's;  and  in  his  right  hand 
was  a  black-handled  jack-knife. 

"Noo,  by !"  he  cried  in  a  terrible  voice,  "where  is 

he?" 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  darting  his  fiery 
glances  everywhere;  and  his  face  was  whiter  than  his  hair. 

Then  he  turned  and  hunted  madly  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  High,  nosing  like  a  weasel  in  every  cranny, 

stabbing  at  the  air  as  he  went,  and  screaming,  "By , 

Kirby,  wait  till  I  get  ye!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


HOW   THE    KILLER   WAS   SINGED 


"O  further  harm  came  of  the  incident;  but  it  served 
as  a  healthy  object-lesson  for  the  Dalesmen. 

A  coincidence  it  may  have  been,  but,  as  a  fact,  for  the 
fortnight  succeeding  Kirby's  exploit  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
crimes.  There  followed,  as  though  to  make  amends,  the 
seven  days  still  remembered  in  the  Daleland  as  the  Bloody 
Week. 

On  the  Sunday  the  Squire  lost  a  Cheviot  ewe,  killed  not 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  Manor  wall.  On  the  Monday  a 
farm  on  the  Black  Water  was  marked  with  the  red  cross. 
On  Tuesday — a  black  night — Tupper  at  Swinsthwaite 
came  upon  the  murderer  at  his  work;  he  fired  into  the 
darkness  without  effect;  and  the  Killer  escaped  with  a 
scaring.  On  the  following  night  Viscount  Birdsaye  lost  a 
shearling  ram,  for  which  he  was  reported  to  have  paid  a 
fabulous  sum.     Thursday  was  the  one  blank  night  of  the 

16s 


166         HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 

week-  On  Friday  Tupper  was  again  visited  and  punished 
heavily,  as  though  in  revenge  for  that  shot. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon  a  big  meeting  was  held  at  the 
Manor  to  discuss  measures.  The  Squire  presided;  gentle- 
men and  magistrates  were  there  in  numbers,  and  every 
farmer  in  the  countryside. 

To  start  the  proceedings  the  Special  Commissioner  read 
a  futile  letter  from  the  Board  of  Agriculture.  After  him 
Viscount  Birdsaye  rose  and  proposed  that  a  reward  more 
suitable  to  the  seriousness  of  the  case  than  the  paltry 
£5  of  the  Police  should  be  offered,  and  backed  his  proposal 
with  a  £25  cheque.  Several  others  spoke,  and,  last  of  all, 
Parson  Leggy  rose. 

He  briefly  summarized  the  history  of  the  crimes;  re- 
iterated his  belief  that  a  sheep-dog  was  the  criminal; 
declared  that  nothing  had  occurred  to  shake  his  conviction; 
and  concluded  by  offering  a  remedy  for  their  consideration. 
Simple  it  was,  so  he  said,  to  laughableness;  yet,  if  their 
surmise  was  correct,  it  would  serve  as  an  effectual  pre- 
ventive if  not  cure,  and  would  at  least  give  them  time  to 
turn  round.     He  paused. 

"My  suggestion  is:  That  every  man-jack  of  you  who 
owns  a  sheep-dog  ties  him  up  at  night." 

The  farmers  were  given  half  an  hour  to  consider  the 
proposal,  and  clustered  in  knots  talking  it  over.  Many  an 
eye  was  directed  on  M  'Adam;  but  that  little  man  appeared 
all  unconscious. 

"Weel,  Mr.  Saunderson,"  he  was  saying  in  shrill 
accents,  "and  shall  ye  tie  Shep?" 

"What  d'yo'  think?"  asked  Rob,  eying  the  man  at 
whom  the  measure  was  aimed. 

"Why,   it's  this  way,   I'm  thinkin',"  the  little    man 


HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED         167 

replied.  "Gin  ye  haud  Shep's  the  guilty  one  I  wad,  by  all 
manner  o'  means — or  shootin  'd  be  aiblins  better.  If  not, 
why" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly;  and  hav- 
ing shown  his  hand  and  driven  the  nail  well  home,  the 
little  man  left  the  meeting. 

James  Moore  stayed  to  see  the  Parson's  resolution 
negatived  by  a  large  majority,  and  then  he  too  quitted  the 
hall.  He  had  foreseen  the  result,  and,  previous  to  the 
meeting,  had  warned  the  Parson  how  it  would  be. 

"Tie  up!"  he  cried  almost  indignantly,  as  Owd  Bob 
came  galloping  up  to  his  whistle;  "I  think  I  see  myself 
chainin'  yo',  owd  lad,  like  any  murderer.  Why,  it's  yo' 
has  kept  the  Killer  off  Kenmuir  so  far,  I'll  lay." 

At  the  lodge-gate  was  M'Adam,  for  once  without  his 
familiar  spirit,  playing  with  the  lodge-keeper's  child;  for 
the  little  man  loved  all  children  but  his  own,  and  was 
beloved  of  them.    As  the  Master  approached  he  looked 

up- 

"Weel,  Moore,"  he  called,  "and  are  you  gaein*  to  tie 
yer  dog?" 

"I  will  if  you  will  yours,"  the  Master  answered  grimly. 

"Na,"  the  little  man  replied,  "it's  Wullie  as  frichts  the 
Killer  aff  the  Grange.  That's  why  I've  left  him  there 
noo." 

"It's  the  same  wi'  me,"  the  Master  said.  "He's  not 
come  to  Kenmuir  yet,  nor  he'll  not  so  long  as  Th'  Owd 
Un's  loose,  I  reck'n." 

"Loose  or  tied,  for  the  matter  o'  that,"  the  little  man 
rejoined,  "Kenmuir '11  escape."  He  made  the  statement 
dogmatically,  snapping  his  lips. 

The  Master  frowned. 

"Why  that?"  he  asked. 


168         HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 

"Ha'  ye  no  heard  what  they're  sayin'?"  the  little  man 
inquired  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"Nay;  what?" 

"Why,  that  the  mere  repitation  o'  th'  best  sheep-dog  in 
the  North  should  keep  him  aff.  An'  I  guess  they're 
reet,"  and  he  laughed  shrilly  as  he  spoke. 

The  Master  passed  on,  puzzled. 

"Which  road  are  ye  gaein'  hame?"  M'Adam  called 
after  him.  "Because,"  with  a  polite  smile,  "I'll  tak' 
t'ither." 

"I'm  off  by  the  Windy  Brae,"  the  Master  answered, 
striding  on.  "Squire  asked  me  to  leave  a  note  wi'  his 
shepherd  t'other  side  o'  the  Chair."  So  he  headed  away 
to  the  left,  making  for  home  by  the  route  along  the  Silver 
Mere. 

It  is  a  long  sweep  of  almost  unbroken  moorland,  the 
well-called  Windy  Brae;  sloping  gently  down  in  mile  on 
mile  of  heather  from  the  Mere  Marches  on  the  top  to  the 
fringe  of  the  Silver  Mere  below.  In  all  that  waste  of 
moor  the  only  break  is  the  quaint-shaped  Giant's  Chair, 
puzzle  of  geologists,  looking  as  though  plumped  down  by 
accident  in  the  heathery  wild.  The  ground  rises  suddenly 
from  the  uniform  grade  of  the  Brae;  up  it  goes,  ever 
growing  steeper,  until  at  length  it  runs  abruptly  into  a 
sheer  curtain  of  rock — the  Fall — which  rises  perpendicular 
some  forty  feet,  on  the  top  of  which  rests  that  tiny  grassy 
bowl — not  twenty  yards  across — they  call  the  Scoop. 

The  Scoop  forms  the  seat  of  the  Chair  and  reposes  on  its 
collar  of  rock,  cool  and  green  and  out  of  the  world,  like 
wine  in  a  metal  cup;  in  front  is  the  forty-foot  Fall;  behind 
rising  sheer  again,  the  wall  of  rock  which  makes  the  back 
of  the  Chair.     Inaccessible  from  above,  the  only  means  of 


HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED         169 

entrance  to  that  little  dell  are  two  narrow  sheep-tracks, 
which  crawl  dangerously  up  between  the  sheer  wall  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  sheer  Fall  on  the  other,  entering  it  at 
opposite  sides. 

It  stands  out  clear-cut  from  the  gradual  incline,  that 
peculiar  eminence;  yet  as  the  Master  and  Owd  Bob 
debouched  on  to  the  Brae  it  was  already  invisible  in  the 
darkening  night. 

Through  the  heather  the  two  swung,  the  Master  think- 
ing now  with  a  smile  of  David  and  Maggie;  wondering 
what  M'Adam  had  meant;  musing  with  a  frown  on  the 
Killer;  pondering  on  his  identity — for  he  was  half  of 
David's  opinion  as  to  Red  Wull's  innocence;  and  thanking 
his  stars  that  so  far  Kenmuir  had  escaped,  a  piece  of  luck 
he  attributed  entirely  to  the  vigilance  of  Th'  Owd  Un, 
who,  sleeping  in  the  porch,  slipped  out  at  all  hours  and 
went  his  rounds,  warding  off  danger.  And  at  the  thought 
he  looked  down  for  the  dark  head  which  should  be  travel- 
ling at  his  knee;  yet  could  not  see  it,  so  thick  hung  the 
pall  of  night. 

So  he  brushed  his  way  along,  and  ever  the  night  grew 
blacker;  until,  from  the  swell  of  the  ground  beneath  his 
feet,  he  knew  himself  skirting  the  Giant's  Chair. 

Now  as  he  sped  along  the  foot  of  the  rise,  of  a  sudden 
there  burst  on  his  ear  the  myriad  patter  of  galloping  feet. 
He  turned,  and  at  the  second  a  swirl  of  sheep  almost  bore 
him  down.  It  was  velvet-black,  and  they  fled  furiously 
by,  yet  he  dimly  discovered,  driving  at  their  trails,  a 
vague  hound-like  form. 

"The  Killer,  by  thunder!"  he  ejaculated,  and,  startled 
though  he  was,  struck  down  at  that  last  pursuing  shape  to 
miss  and  almost  fall. 


!7o        HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 

"Bob,  lad!"  he  cried,  "follow  on!"  and  swung  round: 
but  in  the  darkness  could  not  see  if  the  gray  dog  had 
obeyed. 

The  chase  swept  on  into  the  night,  and,  far  above  him 
on  the  hill-side,  he  could  now  hear  the  rattle  of  the  flying 
feet.  He  started  hotly  in  pursuit,  and  then,  recognizing 
the  futility  of  following  where  he  could  not  see  his  hand, 
desisted.  So  he  stood  motionless,  listening  and  peering  in- 
to the  blackness,  hoping  Th'  Owd  Un  was  on  the  villain's 
heels. 

He  prayed  for  the  moon;  and,  as  though  in  answer,  the 
lantern  of  the  night  shone  out  and  lit  the  dour  face  of  the 
Chair  above  him.  He  shot  a  glance  at  his  feet;  and 
thanked  heaven  on  finding  the  gray  dog  was  not  beside 
him. 

Then  he  looked  up.  The  sheep  had  broken,  and  were 
scattered  over  the  steep  hill-side,  still  galloping  madly. 
In  the  rout  one  pair  of  darting  figures  caught  and  held  his 
gaze:  the  foremost  dodging,  twisting,  speeding  upward, 
the  hinder  hard  on  the  leader's  heels,  swift,  remorseless, 
never  changing.  He  looked  for  a  third  pursuing  form; 
but  none  could  be  discern. 

"He  mun  ha'  missed  him  in  the  dark,"  the  Master 
muttered,  the  sweat  standing  on  his  brow,  as  he  strained 
his  eyes  upward. 

Higher  and  higher  sped  those  two  dark  specks,  far  out- 
topping  the  scattered  remnant  of  the  flock.  Up  and  up, 
until  of  a  sudden  the  sheer  Fall  dropped  its  relentless 
barrier  in  the  path  of  the  fugitive.  Away,  scudding  along 
the  foot  of  the  rock-wall  struck  the  familiar  track  leading 
to  the  Scoop,  and  up  it,  bleating  pitifully,  nigh  spent,  the 
Killer  hard  on  her  now. 


HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED         171 

"He'll  doon  her  in  the  Scoop!"  cried  the  Master 
hoarsely,  following  with  fascinated  eyes.  "Owd  Un! 
Owd  Un!  wheer  iver  are  yo'  gotten  to?"  he  called  in 
agony;  but  no  Owd  Un  made  reply. 

As  they  reached  the  summit,  just  as  he  had  prophesied, 
the  two  black  dots  were  one;  and  down  they  rolled  to- 
gether into  the  hollow  of  the  Scoop,  out  of  the  Master's 
ken.  At  the  same  instant  the  moon,  as  though  loth  to 
watch  the  last  act  of  the  bloody  play,  veiled  her  face. 

It  was  his  chance.  "Noo!" — and  up  the  hillside  he 
sped  like  a  young  man,  girding  his  loins  for  the  struggle. 
The  slope  grew  steep  and  steeper;  but  on  and  on  he  held 
in  the  darkness,  gasping  painfully,  yet  running  still,  until 
the  face  of  the  Fall  blocked  his  way  too. 

There  he  paused  a  moment,  and  whistled  a  low  call. 
Could  he  but  dispatch  the  old  dog  up  the  one  path  to  the 
Scoop,  while  he  took  the  other,  the  murderer's  one  road  to 
safety  would  be  blocked. 

He  waited,  all  expectant;  but  no  cold  muzzle  was  shoved 
into  his  hand.  Again  he  whistled.  A  pebble  from  above 
almost  dropped  on  him,  as  if  the  criminal  up  there  had 
moved  to  the  brink  of  the  Fall  to  listen;  and  he  dared  no 
more. 

He  waited  till  all  was  still  again,  then  crept,  cat-like, 
along  the  rock-foot,  and  hit,  at  length,  the  track  up  which 
a  while  before  had  fled  Killer  and  victim.  Up  that  ragged 
way  he  crawled  on  hands  and  knees.  The  perspiration 
rolled  off  his  face;  one  elbow  brushed  the  rock  perpetually; 
one  hand  plunged  ever  and  anon  into  that  naked  emptiness 
on  the  other  side. 

He  prayed  that  the  moon  might  keep  in  but  a  little 
longer;  that  his  feet  might  be  saved  from  falling,  where  a 


172         HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 

slip  might  well  mean  death,  certain  destruction  to  any 
chance  of  success.  He  cursed  his  luck  that  Th'  Owd  Un 
had  somehow  missed  him  in  the  dark;  for  now  he  must 
trust  to  chance,  his  own  great  strength,  and  his  good  oak 
stick.  And  as  he  climbed,  he  laid  his  plan:  to  rush  in  on 
the  Killer  as  he  still  gorged  and  grapple  with  him.  If  in 
the  darkness  he  missed — and  in  that  narrow  arena  the 
contingency  was  improbable! — the  murderer  might  still, 
in  the  panic  of  the  moment,  forget  the  one  path  to  safety 
and   leap   over  the  Fall  to  his   destruction. 

At  length  he  reached  the  summit  and  paused  to  draw 
breath.  The  black  void  before  him  was  the  Scoop,  and 
in  its  bosom — not  ten  yards  away — must  be  lying  the 
Killer  and  the  killed. 

He  crouched  against  the  wet  rock-face  and  listened.  In 
that  dark  silence,  poised  'twixt  heaven  and  earth,  he 
seemed  a  million  miles  apart  from  living  soul. 

No  sound,  and  yet  the  murderer  must  be  there.  Ay. 
there  was  the  tinkle  of  a  dislodged  stone;  and  again,  the 
tread  of  stealthy  feet. 

The  Killer  was  moving;  alarmed;  was  off. 

Quick! 

He  rose  to  his  full  height;  gathered  himself,  and  leapt. 

Something  collided  with  him  as  he  sprang;  something 
wrestled  madly  with  him;  something  wrenched  from 
beneath  him;  and  in  a  clap  he  heard  the  thud  of  a  body 
striking  ground  far  below,  and  the  slithering  and  splat- 
tering of  some  creature  speeding  furiously  down  the  hill- 
side and  away. 

"Who  the  blazes?"  roared  he. 

"What  the  devil?"  screamed  a  little  voice. 

The  moon  shone  out. 


HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED         173 

"Moore!" 

"M'Adam!" 

And  there  they  were  still  struggling  over  the  body  of  a 
dead  sheep. 

In  a  second  they  had  disengaged  and  rushed  to  the 
edge  of  the  Fall.  In  the  quiet  they  could  still  hear  the 
scrambling  hurry  of  the  fugitive  far  below  them.  Nothing 
was  to  be  seen,  however,  save  an  array  of  startled  sheep  on 
the  hill-side,  mute  witnesses  of  the  murderer's  escape. 

The  two  men  turned  and  eyed  each  other;  the  one  grim, 
the  other  sardonic:  both  dishevelled  and  suspicious. 

"Well?" 

"Weel?" 

A  pause  and,  careful  scrutiny. 

"There's  blood  on  your  coat." 

"And  on  yours." 

Together  they  walked  back  into  the  little  moon-lit 
hollow.  There  lay  the  murdered  sheep  in  a  pool  of  blood. 
Plain  it  was  to  see  whence  the  marks  on  their  coats  came. 
M'Adam  touched  the  victim's  head  with  his  foot.  The 
movement  exposed  its  throat.  With  a  shudder  he  replaced 
it  as  it  was. 

The  two  men  stood  back  and  eyed  one  another. 

"What  are  yo'  doin'  here?" 

"After  the  Killer.     What  are  you?" 

"After  the  Killer?" 

"Hoo  did  you  come?" 

"Up  this  path,"  pointing  to  the  one  behind  him.  "Hoo 
did  you?" 

"Up  this." 

Silence;  then  again: 

"I'd  ha' had  him  but  for  yo\" 


i74        HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 

"I  did  have  him,  but  ye  tore  me  aff." 

A  pause  again. 

"Where's  yer  gray  dog?"  This  time  the  challenge  was 
unmistakable. 

"I  sent  him  after  the  Killer.     Wheer's  your  Red  Wull?" 

"At  hame,  as  I  tell't  ye  before." 

"Yo'  mean  yo'  left  him  there?" 

M 'Adam's  fingers  twitched. 

"He's  where  I  left  him." 

James  Moore  shrugged  his  shoulders.  And  the  other 
began: 

"When  did  yer  dog  leave  ye?" 

"When  the  Killer  came  past." 

"Ye  wad  say  ye  missed  him  then?" 

"I  say  what  I  mean." 

"Ye  say  he  went  after  the  Killer.  Noo  the  Killer  was 
here,"  pointing  to  the  dead  sheep.  "Was  your  dog  here, 
too?" 

"If  he  had  been  he'd  been  here  still." 

"Onless  he  went  over  the  Fall!" 

"That  was  the  Killer,  yo'  fule." 

"Or  your  dog." 

"There  was  only  one  beneath  me.     I  felt  him." 

"Just  so,"  said  M'Adam,  and  laughed.  The  other's 
brow  contracted. 

"An'  that  was  a  big  un,"  he  said  slowly.  The  little 
man  stopped  his  cackling. 

"There  ye  lie,"  he  said  smoothly.     "He  was  small." 

They  looked  one  another  full  in  the  eyes. 

"That's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  said  the  Master. 

"It's  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  the  other. 

The  two  stared  at  one  another,  silent  and  stern,  each 


HOW  THE  KILLER  WAS  SINGED 


175 


trying  to  fathom  the  other's  soul;  then  they  turned  again 
to  the  brink  of  the  Fall.  Beneath  them,  plain  to  see,  was 
the  splash  and  furrow  in  the  shingle  marking  the  Killer's 
line  of  retreat.  They  looked  at  one  another  again,  and 
then  each  departed  the  way  he  had  come  to  give  his  version 
of  the  story. 

"We  mucked  it  atween  us,"  said  the  Master.  "If 
Th'  Owd  Un  had  kept  wi'  me,  I  should  ha'  had  him." 

And— 

"I  tell  ye  I  did  have  him,  but  James  Moore  pulled  me 
aff.     Strange,  too,  his  dog  not  bein'  wi'  him!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 


LAD   AND    LASS 


AN  immense  sensation  this  affair  of  the  Scoop  created 
1\,  in  the  Daleland.  It  spurred  the  Dalesmen  into  fresh 
endeavours.  James  Moore  and  M'Adam  were  examined 
and  re-examined  as  to  the  minutest  details  of  the  matter. 
The  whole  country-side  was  placarded  with  huge  bills, 
offering  £100  reward  for  the  capture  of  the  criminal  dead 
or  alive.  While  the  vigilance  of  the  watchers  was  such 
that  in  a  single  week  they  bagged  a  donkey,  an  old  woman, 
and  two  amateur  detectives. 

In  Wastrel-dale  the  near  escape  of  the  Killer,  the 
collision  between  James  Moore  and  Adam,  and  Owd 
Bob's  unsuccess,  who  was  not  wont  to  fail,  aroused  intense 
excitement,  with  which  was  mingled  a  certain  anxiety  as 
to  their  favourite. 

For  when  the  Master  had  reached  home  that  night,  he 
had  found  the  old  dog  already  there,  and  he  must  have 
wrenched  his  foot  in  the  pursuit  or  run  a  thorn  into  it,  for 

176 


LAD  AND  LASS  177 

he  was  very  lame.  Whereat,  when  it  was  reported  at  the 
Sylvester  Arms,  M'Adam  winked  at  Red  Wull  and  mut- 
tered, "Ah,  forty  foot  is  an  ugly  tumble." 

A  week  later  the  little  man  called  at  Kenmuir.  As  he 
entered  the  yard,  David  was  standing  outside  the  kitchen 
window,  looking  very  glum  and  miserable.  On  seeing  his 
father,  however,  the  boy  started  forward,  all  alert. 

"What  d'yo'  want  here?"  he  cried  roughly. 

"Same  as  you,  dear  lad,"  the  little  man  giggled,  ad- 
vancing.    "I  come  on  a  visit." 

"Your  visits  to  Kenmuir  are  usually  paid  by  night,  so 
I've  heard,"  David  sneered. 

The  little  man  affected  not  to  hear. 

"So  they  dinna  allow  ye  indoors  wi'  the  Cup,"  he 
laughed.     "They  know  yer  little  ways  then,  David." 

"Nay,  I'm  not  wanted  in  there,"  David  answered 
bitterly,  but  not  so  loud  that  his  father  could  hear. 
Maggie  within  the  kitchen  heard,  however,  but  paid  no 
heed;  for  her  heart  was  hard  against  the  boy,  who  of  late, 
though  he  never  addressed  her,  had  made  himself  as 
unpleasant  in  a  thousand  little  ways  as  only  David 
M'Adam  could. 

At  that  moment  the  Master  came  stalking  into  the  yard, 
Owd  Bob  preceding  him;  and  as  the  old  dog  recognized 
his  visitor  he  bristled  involuntarily. 

At  the  sight  of  the  Master  M'Adam  hurried  forward. 

"I  did  but  come  to  ask  after  the  tyke,"  he  said.  "Is 
he  gettin'  over  his  lameness?" 

James  Moore  looked  surprised;  then  his  stern  face 
relaxed  into  a  cordial  smile.  Such  generous  anxiety  as  to 
the  welfare  of  Red  Wull's  rival  was  a  wholly  new  character- 
istic in  the  little  man. 


178  LAD  AND  LASS 

"I  tak'  it  kind  in  yo',  M'Adam,"  he  said,  "to  come  and 
inquire." 

"Is  the  thorn  oot?"  asked  the  little  man  with  eager 
interest,  shooting  his  head  forward  to  stare  closely  at  the 
other. 

"It  came  oot  last  night  wi'  the  poulticin',"  the  Master 
answered,  returning  the  other's  gaze,  calm  and  steady. 

"I'm  glad  o'  that,"  said  the  little  man,  still  staring. 
But  his  yellow  grinning  face  said  as  plain  as  words, 
"What  a  liar  ye  are,  James  Moore." 

The  days  passed  on.  His  father's  taunts  and  gibes, 
always  becoming  more  bitter,  drove  David  almost  to 
distraction. 

He  longed  to  make  it  up  with  Maggie;  he  longed  for  that 
tender  sympathy  which  the  girl  had  always  extended  to 
him  when  his  troubles  with  his  father  were  heavy  on  him. 
The  quarrel  had  lasted  for  months  now,  and  he  was  well 
weary  of  it,  and  utterly  ashamed.  For,  at  least,  he  had 
the  good  grace  to  acknowledge  that  no  one  was  to  blame 
but  himself;  and  that  it  had  been  fostered  solely  by  his 
ugly  pride. 

At  length  he  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  determined 
to  go  to  the  girl  and  ask  forgiveness.  It  would  be  a  bitter 
ordeal  to  him;  always  unwilling  to  acknowledge  a  fault, 
even  to  himself,  how  much  harder  would  it  be  to  confess 
it  to  this  strip  of  a  girl.  For  a  time  he  thought  it  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  do.  Yet,  like  his  father, 
once  set  upon  a  course,  nothing  could  divert  him.  So, 
after  a  week  of  doubts  and  determinations,  of  cowardice 
and  courage,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  off  he  set. 

An  hour  it  took  him  from  the  Grange  to  the  bridge  over 


LAD  AND  LASS  179 

the  Wastrel — an  hour  which  had  wont  to  be  a  quarter. 
Now,  as  he  walked  on  up  the  slope  from  the  stream,  very 
slowly,  heartening  himself  for  his  penance,  he  was  aware 
of  a  strange  disturbance  in  the  yard  above  him :  the  noisy 
cackling  of  hens,  the  snorting  of  pigs  disturbed,  and  above 
the  rest  the  cry  of  a  little  child  ringing  out  in  shrill  distress. 

He  set  to  running,  and  sped  up  the  slope  as  fast  as  his 
long  legs  would  carry  him.  As  he  took  the  gate  in  his 
stride,  he  saw  the  white-clad  figure  of  Wee  Anne  fleeing 
with  unsteady,  toddling  steps,  her  fair  hair  streaming  out 
behind,  and  one  bare  arm  striking  wildly  back  at  a  great 
pursuing  sow. 

David  shouted  as  he  cleared  the  gate,  but  the  brute  paid 
no  heed,  and  was  almost  touching  the  fugitive  when  Owd 
Bob  came  galloping  round  the  corner,  and  in  a  second  had 
flashed  between  pursuer  and  pursued.  So  close  were 
the  two  that  as  he  swung  round  on  the  startled  sow,  his 
tail  brushed  the  baby  to  the  ground;  and  there  she  lay 
kicking  fat  legs  to  heaven  and  calling  on  all  her  gods. 

David,  leaving  the  old  dog  to  secure  the  warrior  pig, 
ran  round  to  her;  but  he  was  anticipated.  The  whole 
matter  had  barely  occupied  a  minute's  time;  and  Maggie, 
rushing  from  the  kitchen,  now  had  the  child  in  her  arms 
and  was  hurrying  back  with  her  to  the  house. 

"Eh,  ma  pet,  are  yo'  hurted,  dearie?"  David  could  hear 
her  asking  tearfully,  as  he  crossed  the  yard  and  established 
himself  in  the  door. 

"Well,"  he  said,  in  bantering  tones,  "yo'm  a  nice 
wench  to  ha*  charge  o'  oor  Annie!" 

It  was  a  sore  subject  with  the  girl,  and  well  he  knew  it. 
Wee  Anne,  that  golden-haired  imp  of  mischief,  was  forever 
evading  her  sister-mother's  eye  and  attempting  to  im- 


t8o  LAD  AND  LASS 

molate  herself.  More  than  once  she  had  only  been  saved 
from  serious  hurt  by  the  watchful  devotion  of  Owd  Bob, 
who  always  found  time,  despite  his  many  labours,  to  keep  a 
guardian  eye  on  his  well-loved  lassie.  In  the  previous 
winter  she  had  been  lost  on  a  bitter  night  on  the  Muir  Pike; 
once  she  had  climbed  into  a  field  with  the  Highland  bull, 
and  barely  escaped  with  her  life,  while  the  gray  dog  held 
the  brute  in  check;  but  a  little  while  before  she  had  been 
rescued  from  drowning  by  the  Tailless  Tyke;  there  had 
been  numerous  other  mischances;  and  now  the  present 
mishap.  But  the  girl  paid  no  heed  to  her  tormentor  in  her 
joy  at  finding  the  child  all  unhurt. 

"Theer!  yo'  bain't  so  much  as  scratted,  ma  precious,  is 
yo'?"  she  cried.  "Rin  oot  agin,  then,"  and  the  baby 
toddled  joyfully  away. 

Maggie  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  with  face  averted. 
David's  eyes  dwelt  lovingly  upon  her,  admiring  the  pose 
of  the  neat  head  with  its  thatch  of  pretty  brown  hair; 
the  slim  figure,  and  slender  ankles,  peeping  modestly  from 
beneath  her  print  frock. 

"Ma  word!  if  yo'  dad  should  hear  tell  o'  hoo  his  Anne 
"  he  broke  off"  into  a  long-drawn  whistle. 

Maggie  kept  silence;  but  her  lips  quivered,  and  the 
flush  deepened  on  her  cheek. 

"I'm  fear'd  I'll  ha'  to  tell  him,"  the  boy  continued. 
"  'Tis  but  ma  duty." 

"Yo'  may  tell  wham  yo*  like  what  yo'  like,"  the  girl 
replied  coldly;  yet  there  was  a  tremour  in  her  voice. 

"First  yo'  throws  her  in  the  stream,"  David  went  on 
remorselessly;  "then  yo'  chucks  her  to  the  pig,  and  if  it 
had  not  bin  for  me " 

"Yo',  indeed!"  she  broke  in  contemptuously.     "Yo'l 


LAD  AND  LASS  181 

'twas  Owd  Bob  reskied  her.  Yo  'd  nowt '  to  do  wi'  it, 
'cept  lookin'  on — 'bout  what  yo're  fit  for." 

"I  tell  yo'/'  David  pursued  stubbornly,  "an  it  had  not 
bin  for  me  yo'  wouldn't  have  no  sister  by  noo.  She'd  be 
lyin ',  she  would,  pore  little  lass,  cold  as  ice,  pore  mite,  wi' 
no  breath  in  her.  An'  when  yo'  dad  coom  home  there'd 
be  no  Wee  Anne  to  rin  to  him,  and  climb  on  his  knee,  and 
yammer  to  him,  and  beat  his  face.  And  he'd  say, 
'What's  gotten  to  oor  Annie,  as  I  left  wi'  yo'?'  And 
then  yo'd  have  to  tell  him,  'I  never  took  no  manner  o'  fash 
after  her,  dad;  d'reckly  yo'  back  was  turned,  I "' 

The  girl  sat  down,  buried  her  face  in  her  apron,  and 
indulged  in  the  rare  luxury  of  tears. 

"Yo're  the  cruellest  mon  as  iver  was,  David  M'Adam," 
she  sobbed,  rocking  to  and  fro. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  tenderly  bending  over 
her. 

"Eh,  Maggie,  but  I  am  sorry,  lass " 

She  wrenched  away  from  beneath  his  hands. 

"I  hate  yo',"  she  cried  passionately. 

He  gently  removed  her  hands  from  before  her  tear- 
stained  face. 

"I  was  nob 'but  laffin',  Maggie,"  he  pleaded;  "say  yo' 
forgie  me." 

"I  don't,"  she  cried,  struggling.  "I  think  yo're  the 
hatefullest  lad  as  iver  lived." 

The  moment  was  critical;  it  was  a  time  for  heroic 
measures. 

"No,  yo'  don't,  lass,"  he  remonstrated;  and,  releasing 
her  wrists,  lifted  the  b'ttle  drooping  face,  wet  as  it  was,  like 
the  earth  after  a  spring  shower,  and,  holding  it  between  his 
two  big  hands,  kissed  it  twice. 


182  LAD  AND  LASS 

"Yo*  coward!"  she  cried,  a  flood  of  warm  red  crimson- 
ing her  cheeks;  and  she  struggled  vainly  to  be  free. 

*  *Yo'  used  to  let  me,"  he  reminded  her  in  aggrieved 
tones. 

"I  niver  did  1"  she  cried,  more  indignant  than  truthful. 

"Yes,  yo'  did,  when  we  was  little  uns;  that  is,  yo'  was 
alius  for  kissin'  and  I  was  alius  agin  it.  And  noo,"  with 
whole-souled  bitterness,  "I  mayn't  so  much  as  keek  at  yo' 
over  a  stone  wall." 

However  that  might  be,  he  was  keeking  at  her  from 
closer  range  now;  and  in  that  position — for  he  held  her 
firmly  still — she  could  not  help  but  keek  back.  He 
looked  so  handsome — humble  for  once;  penitent  yet 
reproachful;  his  own  eyes  a  little  moist;  and,  withal,  his 
old  audacious  self — that,  despite  herself,  her  anger  grew 
less  hot. 

"Say  yo'  forgie  me  and  I'll  let  yo5  go." 

"I  don't,  nor  niver  shall,"  she  answered  firmly;  but 
there  was  less  conviction  in  her  heart  than  voice. 

"Iss  yo'  do,  lass,"  he  coaxed,  and  kissed  her  again. 

She  struggled  faintly. 

"Hoo  daur  yo'?"  she  cried  through  her  tears.  But  he 
was  not  to  be  moved. 

"Will  yo'  noo?"  he  asked. 

She  remained  dumb,  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

"Impidence!"  she  cried. 

"Ay,"  said  he,  closing  her  mouth. 

"I  wonder  at  ye,  Davie!"  she  said,  surrendering. 

After  that  Maggie  must  needs  give  in;  and  it  was  well 
understood,  though  nothing  definite  had  been  said,  that 
the  boy  and  girl  were  courting.     And  in  the  Dale  the 


LAD  AND  LASS  183 

unanimous  opinion  was  that  the  young  couple  would  make 
"a  gradely  pair,  surely/' 

M  'Adam  was  the  last  person  to  hear  the  news,  long  after 
it  had  been  common  knowledge  in  the  village.  It  was  in 
the  Sylvester  Arms  he  first  heard  it,  and  straightway  fell 
into  one  of  those  foaming  frenzies  characteristic  of  him. 

"The  dochter  o'  Moore  o'  Kenmuir,  d'ye  say?  sic  a 
dochter  o'  sic  a  man!  The  dochter  o'  th'  one  man  in  the 
warld  that's  harmed  me  aboon  the  rest!  I'd  no  ha' 
believed  it  gin  ye'd  no  tell't  me.  Oh,  David,  David! 
I'd  no  ha'  thocht  it  even  o'  you,  ill  son  as  ye've  aye  bin  to 
me.  I  think  he  might  ha'  waited  till  his  auld  dad  was  gone 
and  he'd  no  had  to  wait  lang  the  noo."  Then  the  little 
man  sat  down  and  burst  into  tears.  Gradually,  however, 
he  resigned  himself,  and  the  more  readily  when  he  realized 
that  David  by  his  act  had  exposed  a  fresh  wound  into 
which  he  might  plunge  his  barbed  shafts.  And  he 
availed  himself  to  the  full  of  his  new  opportunities.  Often 
and  often  David  was  sore  pressed  to  restrain  himself. 

"Is't  true  what  they're  sayin'  that  Maggie  Moore's 
nae  better  than  she  should  be?"  the  little  man  asked  one 
evening  with  anxious  interest. 

"They're  not  sayin'  so,  and  if  they  were  'twad  be  a  lie," 
the  boy  answered  angrily. 

M'Adam  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  nodded  his  head. 

"Ay,  they  tell't  me  that  gin  ony  man  knew  'twad  be 
David  M'Adam." 

David  strode  across  the  room. 

"No,  no  mair  o'  that,"  he  shouted.  "Y'ought  to  be 
'shamed,  an  owd  mon  like  you,  to  speak  so  o'  a  lass." 
The  little  man  edged  close  up  to  his  son,  and  looked  up 
into  the  fair  flushed  face  towering  above  him. 


iS4  LAD  AND  LASS 

"David,"  he  said  in  smooth  soft  tones,  "I'm  'stonished 
ye  dinna  strike  yer  auld  dad."  He  stood  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back  as  if  daring  the  young  giant  to 
raise  a  finger  against  him.  "Ye  maist  might  noo,"  he 
continued  suavely.  "Ye  maun  be  sax  inches  taller,  and  a 
good  four  stane  heavier.  Hooiver,  aiblins  ye 're  wise  to 
wait.  Anither  year  twa  I  '11  be  an  auld  man,  as  ye  say,  and 
feebler,  and  Wullie  here '11  be  gettin'  on,  while  you'll  be 
in  the  prime  o'  yer  strength.  Then  I  think  ye  might  hit 
me  wi*  safety  to  your  person,  and  honour  to  yourself." 

He  took  a  pace  back,  smiling. 

"Feyther,"  said  David,  huskily,  "one  day  yo'll  drive 
me  too  far." 


#^ 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    SNAPPING   OF  THE    STRING 

THE  spring  was  passing,  marked  throughout  with  the 
bloody  trail  of  the  Killer.  The  adventure  in  the 
Scoop  scared  him  for  a  while  into  innocuousness;  then  he 
resumed  his  game  again  with  redoubled  zest.  It  seemed 
likely  he  would  harry  the  district  till  some  lucky  accident 
carried  him  off,  for  all  chance  there  was  of  arresting  him. 
You  could  still  hear  nightly  in  the  Sylvester  Arms  and 
elsewhere  the  assertion,  delivered  with  the  same  dogmatic 
certainty  as  of  old,  "It's  the  Terror,  I  tell  yo'!"  and  that 
irritating,  inevitable  reply.  "Ay;  but  wheer's  the  proof?" 
While  often,  at  the  same  moment,  in  a  house  not  far  away, 
a  little  lonely  man  was  sitting  before  a  low-burnt  fire, 
rocking  to  and  fro,  biting  his  nails,  and  muttering  to  the 
great  dog  whose  head  lay  between  his  knees:  "If  we  had 
but  the  proof,  Wullie!  if  we  had  but  the  proof!  I'd  give 
ma  right  hand  affmy  arm  gin  we  had  the  proof  to-morrow." 
Long  Kirby,  who  was  always  for  war  when  some  one  elsfe 

185 


186        THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

was  to  do  the  fighting,  suggested  that  David  should  be 
requested  in  the  name  of  the  Dalesmen,  to  tell  M'Adam, 
that  he  must  make  an  end  to  Red  Wull.  But  Jim  Mason 
quashed  the  proposal,  remarking  truly  enough  that  there 
was  too  much  bad  blood  as  it  was  between  father  and  son; 
while  Tammas  proposed  with  a  sneer  that  the  smith  should 
be  his  own  agent  in  the  matter. 

Whether  it  was  this  remark  of  Tammas's  which  stung  the 
big  man  into  action,  or  whether  it  was  that  the  intensity  of 
his  hate  gave  him  unusual  courage,  anyhow,  a  few  days 
later,  M'Adam  caught  him  lurking  in  the  granary  of  the 
Grange. 

The  little  man  may  not  have  guessed  his  murderous 
intent;  yet  the  blacksmith's  white-faced  terror,  as  he 
crouched  away  in  the  darkest  corner,  could  have  hardly 
escaped  remark;  though — and  Kirby  may  thank  his  stars 
for  it — the  treacherous  gleam  of  a  gun-barrel,  ill-concealed 
behind  him,  did. 

"Hullo,  Kirby!"  said  M'Adam  cordially,  "ye '11  stay 
the  night  wi'  me?"  And  the  next  thing  the  big  man 
heard  was  a  giggle  on  the  far  side  the  door,  lost  in  the 
clank  of  padlock  and  rattle  of  chain.  Then — through  a 
crack — "Good-night  to  ye.  Hope  ye '11  be  comfie." 
And  there  he  stayed  that  night,  the  following  day  and  next 
night — thirty-six  hours  in  all,  with  swedes  for  his  hunger 
and  the  dew  off  the  thatch  for  his  thirst. 

Meanwhile  the  struggle  between  David  and  his  father 
seemed  coming  to  a  head.  The  little  man's  tongue 
wagged  more  bitterly  than  ever;  now  it  was  never  at  rest — 
searching  out  sores,  stinging,  piercing. 

Worst  of  all,  he  was  continually  dropping  innuendoes, 
seemingly  innocent  enough,  yet  with  a  world  of  subtile 


THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING        187 

meaning  at  their  back,  respecting  Maggie.  The  leer  and 
wink  with  which,  when  David  came  home  from  Kenmuir 
at  nights,  he  would  ask  the  simple  question,  "And  was 
she  kind,  David — eh,  eh?"  made  the  boy's  blood  boil 
within  him. 

And  the  more  effective  the  little  man  saw  his  shots  to  be, 
the  more  persistently  he  plied  them.  And  David  re- 
taliated in  kind.  It  was  a  war  of  reprisals.  There  was 
no  peace;  there  were  no  truces  in  which  to  bury  the  dead 
before  the  opponents  set  to  slaying  others.  And  every 
day  brought  the  combatants  nearer  to  that  final  struggle, 
the  issue  of  which  neither  cared  to  contemplate. 

There  came  a  Saturday,  toward  the  end  of  the  spring, 
long  to  be  remembered  by  more  than  David  in  the  Dale. 

For  that  young  man  the  day  started  sensationally. 
Rising  before  cock-crow,  and  going  to  the  window,  the 
first  thing  he  saw  in  the  misty  dawn  was  the  gaunt,  gi- 
gantic figure  of  Red  Wull,  hounding  up  the  hill  from  the 
Stony  Bottom;  and  in  an  instant  his  faith  was  shaken  to 
its  foundation. 

The  dog  was  travelling  up  at  a  long,  slouching  trot;  and 
as  he  rapidly  approached  the  house,  David  saw  that  his 
flanks  were  all  splashed  with  red  mud,  his  tongue  out,  and 
the  foam  dripping  from  his  jaws,  as  though  he  had  come 
far  and  fast. 

He  slunk  up  to  the  house,  leapt  on  to  the  sill  of  the 
unused  back-kitchen,  some  five  feet  from  the  ground, 
pushed  with  his  paw  at  the  cranky  old  hatchment,  which 
was  its  only  covering;  and,  in  a  second,  the  boy,  straining 
out  of  the  window  the  better  to  see,  heard  the  rattle  of  the 
boards  as  the  dog  dropped  within  the  house. 


188         THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

For  the  moment,  excited  as  he  was,  David  held  his  peace. 
Even  the  Black  Killer  took  only  second  place  in  his 
thoughts  that  morning.  For  this  was  to  be  a  momentous 
day  for  him. 

That  afternoon  James  Moore  and  Andrew  would,  he 
knew,  be  over  at  Grammoch-town,  and,  his  work  finished 
for  the  day,  he  was  resolved  to  tackle  Maggie  and  decide 
his  fate.  If  she  would  have  him — well,  he  would  go  next 
morning  and  thank  God  for  it,  kneeling  beside  her  in  the 
tiny  village  church;  if  not,  he  would  leave  the  Grange  and 
all  its  unhappiness  behind,  and  straightway  plunge  out 
into  the  world. 

All  through  a  week  of  stern  work  he  had  looked  forward 
to  this  hard-won  half-holiday.  Therefore,  when,  as  he 
was  breaking  ofF  at  noon,  his  father  turned  to  him  and 
said  abruptly: 

"David,  ye 're  to  tak' the  Cheviot  lot  o'er  to  Grammoch- 
town  at  once,"  he  answered  shortly: 

"Yo'  mun  tak'  'em  yo'sel',  if  yo'  wish  'em  to  go 
to-day." 

"Na,"  the  little  man  answered;  "Wullie  and  me,  we're 
busy.     Ye  're  to  tak '  'em,  I  tell  ye." 

"I'll  not,"  David  replied.  "If  they  wait  for  me, 
they  wait  till  Monday,"  and  with  that  he  left  the 
room. 

"I  see  what  'tis,"  his  father  called  after  him;  "she's 
give  ye  a  tryst  at  Kenmuir.     Oh,  ye  randy  David!" 

"Yo'  tend  yo'  business;  I'll  tend  mine,"  the  boy 
answered  hotly. 

Now  it  happened  that  on  the  previous  day  Maggie  had 
given  him  a  photograph  of  herself,  or,  rather,  David  had 
taken  it  and  Maggie  had  demurred.     As  he  left  the  room 


THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING        189 

it  dropped  from  his  pocket.  He  failed  to  notice  his  loss, 
but  directly  he  was  gone  M'Adam  pounced  on  it. 

"He!  he!  Wullie,  what's  this?"  he  giggled,  holding  the 
photograph  into  his  face.  "He!  he!  it's  the  jade  hersel', 
I  war'nt;  it's  Jezebel!" 

He  peered  into  the  picture. 

"She  kens  what's  what,  I'll  tak'  oath,  Wullie.  See  her 
eyes — sae  saft  and  languishing  and  her  lips — such  lips, 
Wullie!"  He  held  the  picture  down  for  the  great  dog 
to  see:  then  walked  out  of  the  room,  still  sniggering, 
and  chucking  the  face  insanely  beneath  its  cardboard 
chin. 

Outside  the  house  he  collided  against  David.  The 
boy  had  missed  his  treasure  and  was  hurrying  back  for 

it- 

"What  yo '  got  theer  ?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"Only  the  pictur'  o'  some  randy  quean,"  his  father 
answered,  chucking  away  at  the  inanimate  chin. 

"Gie  it  me!"  David  ordered  fiercely.     "It's  mine." 

"Na,  na,"  the  little  man  replied.  "It's  no  for  sic 
douce  lads  as  dear  David  to  ha'  ony  touch  wi'  leddies  sic 
as  this." 

"Gie  it  me,  I  tell  ye,  or  I'll  tak'  it!"  the  boy  shouted. 

"Na,  na;  it's  ma  duty  as  yer  dad  to  keep  ye  from  sic 
limmers."     He  turned,  still  smiling,  to  Red  Wull. 

"There  ye  are,  Wullie!"  He  threw  the  photograph  to 
the  dog.     "Tear  her,  Wullie,  the  Jezebel!" 

The  Tailless  Tyke  sprang  on  the  picture,  placed  one  big 
paw  in  the  very  centre  of  the  face,  forcing  it  into  the  muck, 
and  tore  a  corner  off";  then  he  chewed  the  scrap  with 
unctious,  slobbering  gluttony,  dropped  it,  and  tore  a  fresh 
piece. 


r9o        THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

David  dashed  forward. 

"Touch  it,  if  ye  daur,  ye  brute!"  he  yelled;  but  his 
father  seized  him  and  held  him  back. 

"'And  the  dogs  o'  the  street,'"  he  quoted. 

David  turned  furiously  on  him. 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  brak'  ivery  bone  in  yer  body!" 
he  shouted,  "robbin'  me  o'  what's  mine  and  throwin'  it 
to  yon  black  brute!" 

"Whist,  David,  whist !"  soothed  the  little  man.  " 'Twas 
but  for  yer  ain  good  yer  auld  dad  did  it.  'Twas  that  he 
had  at  heart  as  he  aye  has.  Rin  aff  wi'  ye  noo  to  Ken- 
muir.  She'll  mak'  it  up  to  ye,  I  war'nt.  She's  leeberal 
wi'  her  favours,  I  hear.  Ye've  but  to  whistle  and  she'll 
come." 

David  seized  his  father  by  the  shoulder. 

"An'  yo'  gie  me  much  more  o'  your  sauce,"  he  roared. 

"Sauce,  Wullie,"  the  little  man  echoed  in  gentle 
voice. 

"I'll  twist  yer  neck  for  yo'!" 

"He'll  twist  my  neck  for  me." 

"I'll  gang  reet  awa',  I  warn  yo',  and  leave  you  and 
yer  Wullie  to  yer  lone." 

The  little  man  began  to  whimper. 

"  It'll  brak '  yer  auld  dad 's  heart,  lad,"  he  said. 

"Nay;  yo've  got  none.  But  'twill  ruin  yo',  please 
God.  For  yo'  and  yer  Wullie'll  get  ne'er  a  soul  to  work 
for  yo' — yo'  cheeseparin ',  dirty-tongued  Jew." 

The  little  man  burst  into  an  agony  of  affected  tears, 
rocking  to  and  fro,  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Waesucks,  Wullie!  d'ye  hear  him?  He's  gaein'  to 
leave  us — the  son  o'  my  bosom!  my  Benjamin!  my  little 
Davie!  he's  gaein'  awa'!" 


THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING         191 

David  turned  away  down  the  hill;  and  M'Adam  lifted 
his  stricken  face  and  waved  a  hand  at  him. 

"'Adieu,  dear  amiable  youth!'"  he  cried  in  broken 
voice :  and  straightway  set  to  sobbing  again. 

Half-way  down  to  the  Stony  Bottom  David  turned. 

"I'll  gie  yo'  a  word  o'  warnin',"  he  shouted  back* 
"I'd  advise  yo'  to  keep  a  closer  eye  to  yer  Wullie's  goings 
on,  'specially  o'  nights,  or  happen  yo'll  wake  to  a  surprise 
one  mornin'.'' 

In  an  instant  the  little  man  ceased  his  fooling. 

"And  why  that?"  he  asked,  following  down  the  hill. 

"  I'll  tell  yo'.  When  I  wak'  this  mornin '  I  walked  to  the 
window,  and  what  d'yo'  think  I  see?  Why,  your  Wullie 
gallopin'  like  a  good  un  up  from  the  Bottom,  all  foamin', 
too,  and  red-splashed,  as  if  he'd  coom  from  the  Screes. 
What  had  he  bin  up  to,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"What  should  he  be  doin',"  the  little  man  replied, 
"but  havin'  an  eye  to  the  stock?  and  that  when  the  Killer 
might  be  oot." 

David  laughed  harshly. 

"Ay,  the  Killer  was  oot,  I'll  go  bail,  and  yo'  may  hear 
o't  afore  the  evenin',  ma  man,"  and  with  that  he  turned 
away  again. 

As  he  had  foreseen,  David  found  Maggie  alone.  But  in 
the  heat  of  his  indignation  against  his  father  he  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  his  original  intent,  and  instead  poured  his 
latest  troubles  into  the  girl's  sympathetic  ear. 

"There's  but  one  mon  in  the  world  he  wishes  worse  nor 
me,"  he  was  saying.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
he  was  still  inveighing  against  his  father  and  his  fate. 
Maggie  sat  in  her  father's  chair  by  the  fire,  knitting; 


192        THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

while  he  lounged  on  the  kitchen  table,  swinging  his  long 
legs. 

"And  who  may  that  be?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Why,  Mr.  Moore,  to  be  sure,  and  Th'  Owd  Un,  too. 
He'd  do  either  o'  them  a  mischief  if  he  could." 

"But  why,  David?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "I'm  sure 
dad  niver  hurt  him,  or  ony  ither  mon  for  the  matter  o* 
that." 

David  nodded  toward  the  Dale  Cup  which  rested  on  the 
mantelpiece  in  silvery  majesty. 

"It's  yon  done  it,"  he  said.  "And  if  Th'  Owd  Un 
wins  agin,  as  win  he  will,  bless  him !  why,  look  out  for  'me 
and  ma  Wullie';  that's  all." 

Maggie  shuddered,  and  thought  of  the  face  at  the 
window. 

"'Me  and  ma  Wullie,'"  David  continued;  "I've  had 
about  as  much  of  them  as  I  can  swaller.  It's  aye  the 
same — 'Me  and  ma  Wullie,'  and  'Wullie  and  me,'  as  if  I 
never  put  ma  hand  to  a  stroke!  Ugh!" — he  made  a 
gesture  of  passionate  disgust — "the  two  on  'em  fair 
madden  me.  I  could  strike  the  one  and  throttle  t'other," 
and  he  rattled  his  heels  angrily  together. 

"Hush,  David,"  interposed  the  girl;  "yo'  munna  speak 
so  o'  your  dad;  it's  agin'  the  commandments." 

'"Tain't  agin  human  nature,"  he  snapped  in  answer. 
"Why  , 'twas  nob 'but  yester'  morn'  he  says  in  his  nasty 
way,  'David,  ma  gran'  fellow,  hoo  ye  work!  ye  'stonish 
me!'  And  on  ma  word,  Maggie" — there  were  tears  in  the 
great  boy's  eyes — "ma  back  was  nigh  broke  wi'  toilin'. 
And  the  Terror,  he  stands  by  and  shows  his  teeth,  and 
looks  at  me  as  much  as  to  say,  'Some  day,  by  the  grace  o' 
goodness,  I'll  ha'  my  teeth  in  your  throat,  young  mon.'" 


THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING         193 

Maggie's  knitting  dropped  into  her  lap  and  she  looked 
up,  her  soft  eyes  for  once  flashing. 

"It's  cruel,  David;  so  'tis!"  she  cried.  "I  wonder  yo' 
bide  wi'  him.  If  he  treated  me  so,  I'd  no  stay  anither 
minute.  If  it  meant  the  House  for  me  I  'd  go,"  and  she 
looked  as  if  she  meant  it. 

David  jumped  off  the  table. 

"Han'  yo'  niver  guessed  why  I  stop,  lass,  and  me  so 
happy  at  home?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

Maggie's  eyes  dropped  again. 

"Hoo  should  I  know?"  she  asked  innocently. 

"Nor  care,  neither,  I  s'pose,"  he  said  in  reproachful 
accents.  "Yo'  want  me  to  go  and  leave  yo',  and  go  reet 
awa';  I  see  hoo  'tis.  Yo'  wouldna  mind,  not  yo',  if  yo' 
was  niver  to  see  pore  David  agin.  I  niver  thowt  yo' 
welly  like  me,  Maggie;  and  noo  I  know  it." 

"Yo'  silly  lad,"  the  girl  murmured,  knitting  stead- 
fastly. 

"Then  yo'  do,"  he  cried,  triumphant,  "I  knew  yo' 
did."  He  approached  close  to  her  chair,  his  face  clouded 
with  eager  anxiety. 

"But  d'yo'  like  me  more'n  just  likin\  Maggie?  d'yo'," 
he  bent  and  whispered  in  the  little  ear. 

The  girl  cuddled  over  her  work  so  that  he  could  not  see 
her  face. 

"If  yo'  won't  tell  me  yo'  can  show  me,"  he  coaxed. 
"There's  other  things  besides  words." 

He  stood  before  her,  one  hand  on  the  chair-back  on 
either  side.  She  sat  thus,  caged  between  his  arms,  with 
drooping  eyes  and  heightened  colour. 

"Not  so  close,  David,  please,"  she  begged,  fidgeting 
uneasily;  but  the  request  was  unheeded. 


i94        THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

"Do'ee  move  away  a  wee,"  she  implored. 

"Not  till  yo've  showed  me,"  he  said,  relentless. 

"I  canna,  Davie,"  she  cried  with  laughing  petulance. 

"Yes,  yo'  can,  lass." 

"Tak'  your  hands  away,  then." 

"Nay;  not  till  yo've  showed  me." 

A  pause. 

"Do'ee,  Davie,"  she  supplicated. 

And— 

"Do'ee,"  he  pleaded. 

She  tilted  her  face  provokingly,  but  her  eyes  were  still 
down. 

"It's  no  manner  o'  use,  Davie." 

"Iss,  'tis,"  he  coaxed. 

"Niver." 

"Please." 

A  lengthy  pause. 

"Well,  then "     She  looked  up,  at  last,  shy,  trustful, 

happy;  and  the  sweet  lips  were  tilted  further  to  meet  his. 

And  thus  they  were  situated,  lover-like,  when  a  low, 
rapt  voice  broke  in  on  them, — 


'A  dear-lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 
A  treacherous  inclination.' 


Oh,  Wullie,  I  wush  you  were  here!" 

It  was  little  M'Adam.  He  was  leaning  in  at  the  open 
window,  leering  at  the  young  couple,  his  eyes  puckered,  an 
evil  expression  on  his  face. 

"The  creetical  moment!  and  I  interfere!  David,  ye '11 
never  forgie  me." 

The  boy  jumped  round  with  an  oath;  and  Maggie,  her 


THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING        195 

face  flaming,  started  to  her  feet.  The  tone,  the  words,  the 
look  of  the  little  man  at  the  window  were  alike  insufferable. 

"By  thunder!  I'll  teach  yo'  to  come  spyin'  on  me!" 
roared  David.  Above  him  on  the  mantel-piece  blazed  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy.  Searching  any  missile  in  his  fury,  he 
reached  up  a  hand  for  it. 

"Ay,  gie  it  me  back.  Ye  robbed  me  o't,"  the  little 
man  cried,  holding  out  his  arms  as  if  to  receive  it. 

"Dinna,  David,"  pleaded  Maggie,  with  restraining 
hand  on  her  lover's  arm. 

"By  the  Lord!  I'll  give  him  something!"  yelled  the 
boy.  Close  by  there  stood  a  pail  of  soapy  water.  He 
seized  it,  swung  it,  and  slashed  its  contents  at  the  leering 
face  in  the  window. 

The  little  man  started  back,  but  the  dirty  torrent  caught 
him  and  soused  him  through.  The  bucket  followed, 
struck  him  full  on  the  chest,  and  rolled  him  over  in  the 
mud.     After  it  with  a  rush  came  David. 

"I'll  let  yo'  know,  spyin'  on  me!"  he  yelled.     "I'll 

"  Maggie,  whose  face  was  as  white  now  as  it  had  been 

crimson,  clung  to  him,  hampering  him. 

"Dinna,  David,  dinna!"  she  implored.  "He's  yer  ain 
dad." 

"I'll  dad  him!  I'll  learn  him!"  roared  David  half 
through  the  window. 

At  the  moment  Sam'l  Todd  came  floundering  furiously 
round  the  corner,  closely  followed  by  'Enry  and  oor  Job. 

"Is  he  dead?"  shouted  Sam'l  seeing  the  prostrate  form. 

"Ho!  ho!"  went  the  other  two. 

They  picked  up  the  draggled  little  man  and  hustled  him 
out  of  the  yard  like  a  thief,  a  man  on  either  side  and  a  man 
behind. 


196        THE  SNAPPING  OF  THE  STRING 

As  they  forced  him  through  the  gate,  he  struggled  round. 

"By  Him  that  made  ye!  ye  shall  pay  for  this,  David 
M'Adam,  you  and  yer " 

But  SamTs  big  hand  descended  on  his  mouth,  and  he 
was  borne  away  before  that  last  ill  word  had  flitted  into 
being. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


HORROR    OF   DARKNESS 

IT  was  long  past  dark  that  night  when  M'Adam  stag- 
gered home. 

All  that  evening  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  his  imprecations 
against  David  had  made  even  the  hardest  shudder. 
James  Moore,  Owd  Bob,  and  the  Dale  Cup  were  for  once 
forgotten  as,  in  his  passion,  he  cursed  his  son. 

The  Dalesmen  gathered  fearfully  away  from  the  little 
dripping  madman.  For  once  these  men,  whom,  as  a  rule, 
no  such  geyser  outbursts  could  quell,  were  dumb  before 
him;  only  now  and  then  shooting  furtive  glances  in  his 
direction,  as  though  on  the  brink  of  some  daring  enterprise 
of  which  he  was  the  objective.  But  M'Adam  noticed 
nothing,  suspected  nothing. 

When,  at  length,  he  lurched  into  the  kitchen  of  the 
Grange,  there  was  no  light  and  the  fire  burnt  low.  So  dark 
was  the  room  that  a  white  riband  of  paper  pinned  on  to  ths> 
table  escaped  his  remark. 

197 


198  HORROR  OF  DARKNESS 

The  little  man  sat  down  heavily,  his  clothes  still  sodden, 
and  resumed  his  tireless  anathema. 

"I've  tholed  mair  fra  him,  Wullie,  than  Adam  M'Adam 
ever  thocht  to  thole  from  ony  man.  And  noo  it's  gane 
past  bearin'.  He  struck  me,  Wullie!  struck  his  ain  father. 
Ye  see  it  yersel',  Wullie.  Na,  ye  werena  there.  Oh,  gin 
ye  had  but  bin,  Wullie!  Him  and  his  madam!  But  I'll 
gar  him  ken  Adam  M'Adam.     I'll  stan'  nae  mair!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  reaching  up  with  trembling 
hands,  pulled  down  the  old  bell-mouthed  blunderbuss  that 
hung  above  the  mantelpiece. 

"We'll  mak'  an  end  to't,  Wullie,  so  we  will,  aince  and 
for  a'!"  And  he  banged  the  weapon  down  upon  the 
table.  It  lay  right  athwart  that  slip  of  still  condemning 
paper,  yet  the  little  man  saw  it  net. 

Resuming  his  seat,  he  prepared  to  wait.  His  hand 
sought  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  fingered  tenderly  a  small 
stone  bottle,  the  fond  companion  of  his  widowhood.  He 
pulled  it  out,  uncorked  it,  and  took  a  long  pull;  then 
placed  it  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

Gradually  the  gray  head  lolled;  the  shrivelled  hand 
dropped  and  hung  limply  down,  the  finger-tips  brushing 
the  floor;  and  he  dozed  off"  into  a  heavy  sleep,  while  Red 
Wull  watched  at  his  feet. 

It  was  not  till  an  hour  later  that  David  returned  home. 

As  he  approached  the  lightless  house,  standing  in  the 
darkness  like  a  body  with  the  spirit  fled,  he  could  but 
contrast  this  dreary  home  of  his  with  the  bright  kitchen 
and  cheery  faces  he  had  left. 

Entering  the  house,  he  groped  to  the  kitchen  door  and 
opened  it;  then  struck  a  match  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
peering  in. 


HORROR  OF  DARKNESS  199 

"Not  home,  bain't  he?"  he  muttered,  the  tiny  light 
above  his  head.  "Wet  inside  as  well  as  oot  by  noo,  I'll 
lay.  By  gum!  But  'twas  a  lucky  thing  for  him  I  didna 
get  ma  hand  on  him  this  evenin'.  I  could  ha'  killed 
him."     He  held  the  match  above  his  head. 

Two  yellow  eyes,  glowing  in  the  darkness  like  cairn- 
gorms, and  a  small  dim  figure  bunched  up  in  a  chair,  told 
him  his  surmise  was  wrong.  Many  a  time  had  he  seen  his 
father  in  such  case  before,  and  now  he  muttered  con- 
temptuously: 

"Drunk;  the  leetle  swab!     Sleepin'  it  off,  I  reck'n." 

Then  he  saw  his  mistake.  The  hand  that  hung  above 
the  floor  twitched  and  was  still  again. 

There  was  a  clammy  silence.  A  mouse,  emboldened  by 
the  quiet,  scuttled  across  the  hearth.  One  mighty  paw 
lightly  moved;  a  lightning  tap,  and  the  tiny  beast  lay 
dead. 

Again  that  hollow  stillness:  no  sound,  no  movement; 
only  those  two  unwinking  eyes  fixed  on  him  immovable. 

At  length  a  small  voice  from  the  fireside  broke  the  quiet. 

"  Drunk — the — leetle — swab !" 

Again  a  clammy  silence,  and  a  life-long  pause. 

"I  thowt  yo'  was  sleepin',"  said  David,  at  length, 
lamely. 

"Ay,  so  ye  said.  'Sleepin'  it  afF';  I  heard  ye."  Then, 
still  in  the  same  small  voice,  now  quivering  imperceptibly, 

"Wad  ye  obleege  me,  sir,  by  leetin'  the  lamp?  Or, 
d'ye  think,  Wullie,  'twad  be  soilin'  his  dainty  fingers? 
They're  mair  used,  I'm  told,  to  danderin'  wi'  the  bonnie 
brown  hair  o'  his " 

"I'll  not  ha'  ye  talk  o'  ma  Maggie  so,"  interposed  the 
boy  passionately. 


200  HORROR  OF  DARKNESS 

"His  Maggie,  mark  ye,  Wullie — his\  I  thocht  'twad 
soon  get  that  far." 

"Tak'  care,  dad!  I'll  stan'  but  little  more,"  the  boy 
warned  him  in  choking  voice;  and  began  to  trim  the  lamp 
with  trembling  fingers. 

M'Adam  forthwith  addressed  himself  to  Red  Wull. 

"I  suppose  no  man  iver  had  sic  a  son  as  him,  Wullie. 
Ye  ken  what  I've  done  for  him,  an'  ye  ken  hoo  he's  repaid 
it.  He's  set  himsel'  agin  me;  he's  misca'd  me;  he's 
robbed  me  o'  ma  Cup;  last  of  all,  he  struck  me — struck 
me  afore  them  a'.  We've  toiled  for  him,  you  and  I, 
Wullie;  we've  slaved  to  keep  him  in  hoose  an'  hame,  an' 
he's  passed  his  time,  the  while,  in  riotous  leevin',  carousin' 

at  Kenmuir,  amusin'  himsel'  wi'  his "     He  broke  off 

short.  The  lamp  was  lit,  and  the  strip  of  paper,  pinned  on 
to  the  table,  naked  and  glaring,  caught  his  eye. 

"What's  this?"  he  muttered;  and  unloosed  the  nail 
that  clamped  it  down. 

This  is  what  he  read: 

"Adam  Mackadam  yer  warned  to  mak'  an  end  to  yer 
Red  Wull  will  be  best  for  him  and  the  Sheep.  This  is  the 
first  yoll  have  two  more  the  third  will  be  the  last  — *•" 

It  was  written  in  pencil,  and  the  only  signature  was  a 
dagger,  rudely  limned  in  red. 

M'Adam  read  the  paper  once,  twice,  thrice.  As  he 
slowly  assimilated  its  meaning,  the  blood  faded  from  his 
face.  He  stared  at  it  and  still  stared,  with  whitening  face 
and  pursed  lips.  Then  he  stole  a  glance  at  David's  broad 
back. 

"What  d'ye  ken  o'  this,  David?"  he  asked,  at  length, 
in  a  dry  thin  voice,  reaching  forward  in  his  chair. 


HORROR  OF  DARKNESS  201 

"O'what?" 

"O'  this,"  holding  up  the  slip.  "And  ye'd  obleege  me 
by  the  truth  for  once." 

David  turned,  took  up  the  paper,  read  it,  and  laughed 
harshly. 

"It's  coom  to  this,  has  it?"  he  said,  still  laughing,  and 
yet  with  blanching  face. 

"Ye  ken  what  it  means.  I  daresay  ye  pit  it  there; 
aiblins  writ  it.  Ye '11  explain  it."  The  little  man  spoke  in 
the  same  small,  even  voice,  and  his  eyes  never  moved  off 
his  son's  face. 

"It's  plain  as  day.     Ha'  ye  no  heard?" 

"I've  heard  naethin'.  .  .  .I'd  like  the  truth, 
David,  if  ye  can  tell  it." 

The  boy  smiled  a  forced,  unnatural  smile,  looking  from 
his  father  to  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Yo'  shall  have  it,  but  yo'll  not  like  it.  It's  this: 
Tupper  lost  a  sheep  to  the  Killer  last  night." 

"And  what  if  he  did  ?"  The  little  man  rose  smoothly  to 
his  feet.     Each  noticed  the  other's  face — dead-white. 

"Why,  he— lost— it— on Wheer  d'yo'  think?"     He 

drawled  the  words  out,  dwelling  almost  lovingly  on  each. 

"Where?" 

"On— the— Red— Screes." 

The  crash  was  coming — inevitable  now.  David  knew 
it,  knew  that  nothing  could  avert  it,  and  braced  himself  to 
meet  it.  The  smile  had  fled  from  his  face,  and  his  breath 
fluttered  in  his  throat  like  the  wind  before  a  thunderstorm. 

"What  of  it?"  The  little  man's  voice  was  calm  as  a 
summer  sea. 

"Why,  your  Wullie — as  I  told  yo' — was  on  the  Screes 
last  night." 


202  HORROR  OF  DARKNESS 

"Go  on,  David." 

"And  this,"  holding  up  the  paper,  "tells  you  that  they 
ken  as  I  ken  noo,  as  maist  o'  them  ha'  kent  this  mony  a 
day,  that  your  Wullie,  Red  Wull — the  Terror " 

"Go  on." 

"Is " 

"Yes." 

"The  Black  Killer." 

It  was  spoken. 

The  frayed  string  was  snapped  at  last.  The  little  man's 
hand  flashed  to  the  bottle  that  stood  before  him. 

"Ye — liar!"  he  shrieked,  and  threw  it  with  all  his 
strength  at  the  boy's  head.  David  dodged  and  ducked, 
and  the  bottle  hurtled  over  his  shoulder. 

Crash !  it  whizzed  into  the  lamp  behind,  and  broke  on 
the  wall  beyond,  its  contents  trickling  down  the  wall  to  the 
floor. 

For  a  moment,  darkness.  Then  the  spirits  met  the 
lamp's  smouldering  wick  and  blazed  into  flame. 

By  the  sudden  light  David  saw  his  father  on  the  far 
side  the  table,  pointing  with  crooked  forefinger.  By  his 
side  Red  Wull  was  standing  alert,  hackles  up,  yellow 
fangs  bared,  eyes  lurid;  and,  at  his  feet,  the  wee  brown 
mouse  lay  still  and  lifeless. 

"Ooot  o'  ma  hoose!      Back  to  Kenmuir!      Back  to 

yer "     The  unpardonable  word,  unmistakable,  hovered 

for  a  second  on  his  lips  like  some  foul  bubble,  and 
never  burst. 

"No  mither  this  time!"  panted  David,  racing  round  the 
table. 

"Wullie!" 

The  Terror  leapt  to  the  attack;  but  David  overturned 


HORROR  OF  DARKNESS  203 

the  table  as  he  ran,  the  blunderbuss  crashing  to  the 
floor;  it  fell,  opposing  a  momentary  barrier  in  the  dog's 
path. 

"Stan'  off,  ye !"  screeched  the  little  man,  seizing 

a  chair  in  both  hands;  "stan'  off,  or  I'll  brain  ye!" 

But  David  was  on  him. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  tome!" 

Again  the  Terror  came  with  a  roar  like  the  sea.  But 
David,  with  a  mighty  kick  catching  him  full  on  the  jaw, 
repelled  the  attack. 

Then  he  gripped  his  father  round  the  waist  and  lifted 
him  from  the  ground.  The  little  man,  struggling  in  those 
iron  arms,  screamed,  cursed,  and  battered  at  the  face 
above  him,  kicking  and  biting  in  his  frenzy. 

"The  Killer!  wad  ye  ken  wha's  the  Killer?  Go  and 
ask  'em  at  Kenmuir!    Ask  yer " 

David  swayed  slightly,  crushing  the  body  in  his  arms 
till  it  seemed  every  rib  must  break;  then  hurled  it  from 
him  with  all  the  might  of  passion.  The  little  man  fell  with 
a  crash  and  a  groan. 

The  blaze  in  the  corner  flared,  flickered,  and  died. 
There  was  hell-black  darkness,  and  silence  of  the  dead. 

David  stood  against  the  wall,  panting,  every  nerve 
tightstrung  as  the  hawser  of  a  straining  ship. 

In  the  corner  lay  the  body  of  his  father,  limp  and  still; 
and  in  the  room  one  other  living  thing  was  moving. 

He  clung  close  to  the  wall,  pressing  it  with  wet  hands. 
The  horror  of  it  all,  the  darkness,  the  man  in  the  corner, 
that  moving  something,  petrified  him. 

"Feyther!"  he  whispered. 

There  was  no  reply.  A  chair  creaked  at  an  invisible 
touch.     Something  was  creeping,  stealing,  crawling  closer. 


2o4  HORROR  OF  DARKNESS 

David  was  afraid. 

"Feyther!"  he  whispered  in  hoarse  agony,  "are  yo' 
hurt?" 

The  words  were  stifled  in  his  throat.  A  chair  over- 
turned with  a  crash;  a  great  body  struck  him  on  the  chest, 
a  hot,  pestilent  breath  volleyed  in  his  face,  and  wolfish 
teeth  were  reaching  for  his  throat. 

"Come  on,  Killer!"  he  screamed. 

The  horror  of  suspense  was  past.  It  had  come,  and  with 
it  he  was  himself  again. 

Back,  back,  back,  along  the  wall  he  was  borne.  His 
hands  entwined  themselves  around  a  hairy  throat;  he 
forced  the  great  head  with  its  horrid  lightsome  eyes  from 
him;  he  braced  himself  for  the  efFort,  lifted  the  huge 
body  at  his  breast,  and  heaved  it  from  him.  It  struck  the 
wall  and  fell  with  a  soft  thud. 

As  he  recoiled  a  hand  clutched  his  ankle  and  sought  to 
trip  him.  David  kicked  back  and  down  with  all  his 
strength.  There  was  one  awful  groan,  and  he  staggered 
against  the  door  and  out. 

There  he  paused,  leaning  against  the  wall  to  breathe. 

He  struck  a  match  and  lifted  his  foot  to  see  where  the 
hand  had  clutched  him. 

God!  there  was  blood  on  his  heel. 

Then  a  great  fear  laid  hold  on  him.  A  cry  was  suff- 
ocated in  his  breast  by  the  panting  of  his  heart. 

He  crept  back  to  the  kitchen  door  and  listened, 

Not  a  sound. 

Fearfully  he  opened  it  a  crack. 

Silence  of  the  tomb. 

He  banged  it  to.  It  opened  behind  him,  and  the  fact 
lent  wings  to  his  feet. 


HORROR  OF  DARKNESS 


205 


He  turned  and  plunged  out  into  the  night,  and  ran 
ran  through  the  blackness  for  his  life.  And  a  great  owl 
swooped  softly  by  and  hooted  mockingly: 

"  For  your  life !     For  your  life !     For  your  life '" 


PART  V 
OWD  BOB  O'  KENMUIR 


CHAPTER  XXII 


A   MAN   AND   A   MAID 


IN  the  village  even  the  Black  Killer  and  the  murder  on 
the  Screes  were  forgotten  in  this  new  sensation.  The 
mystery  in  which  the  affair  was  wrapped,  and  the  ig- 
norance as  to  all  its  details,  served  to  whet  the  genera/ 
interest.  There  had  been  a  fight;  M'Adam  and  the 
Terror  had  been  mauled;  and  David  had  disappeared — 
those  were  the  facts.  But  what  was  the  origin  of  the 
affray  no  one  could  say. 

One  or  two  of  the  Dalesmen  had,  indeed,  a  shrewd 
suspicion.  Tupper  looked  guilty;  Jem  Burton  muttered, 
"I  knoo  hoo  'twould  be";  while  as  for  Long  Kirby,  he  van- 
ished entirely  not  to  reappear  till  three  months  had  sped. 

Injured  as  he  had  been,  M'Adam  was  yet  sufficiently 
recovered  to  appear  in  the  Sylvester  Arms  on  the  Saturday 
following  the  battle.  He  entered  the  tap-room  silently 
with  never  a  word  to  a  soul;  one  arm  was  in  a  sling  and 
his  head  bandaged.     He  eyed  every  man  present  critically 

209 


210  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

and  all,  except  Tammas,  who  was  brazen,  and  Jim 
Mason,  who  was  innocent,  fidgeted  beneath  the  stare. 
Maybe  it  was  well  for  Long  Kirby  he  was  not  there. 

"Onythin'  the  matter?"  asked  Jem,  at  length,  rather 
lamely,  in  view  of  the  plain  evidences  of  battle. 

"Na,  na;  naethin'  oot  o'  the  ordinar',"  the  little 
man  replied,  giggling.  "Only  David  set  on  me,  and  me 
sleepin'.  And,"  with  a  shrug,  "here  I  am  noo."  He 
sat  down,  wagging  his  bandaged  head  and  grinning. 
"Ye  see  he's  sae  playfu',  is  Davie.  He  wangs  ye  o'er  the 
head  wi'  a  chair,  kicks  ye  in  the  jaw,  stamps  on  yer  wame, 
and  all  as  merry  as  May."  And  nothing  further  could 
they  get  from  him,  except  that  if  David  reappeared  it  was 
his  [M 'Adam's]  firm  resolve  to  hand  him  over  to  the  police 
for  attempted  parricide. 

"'Brutal  assault  on  an  auld  man  by  his  son!'  'Twill 
look  well  in  the  Argus;  he!  he!  They  couldna  let  him 
afF  under  two  years,  I'm  thinkin'." 

M 'Adam's  version  of  the  affair  was  received  with  quiet 
incredulity.  The  general  verdict  was  that  he  had  brought 
his  punishment  entirely  on  his  own  head.  Tammas,  indeed, 
who  was  always  rude  when  he  was  not  witty,  and,  in  fact, 
the  difference  between  the  two  things  is  only  one  of  degree, 
told  him  straight:  "It  served  yo'  well  reet.  An'  I  nob' 
but  wish  he'd  made  an  end  to  yo'." 

"He  did  his  best,  puir  lad,"  M'Adam  reminded  him 
gently. 

"We've  had  enough  o'  yo',"  continued  the  uncom- 
promising old  man.  "I'm  fair  grieved  he  didna  slice  yer 
throat  while  he  was  at  it." 

At  that  M'Adam  raised  his  eyebrows,  stared,  and  then 
broke  into  a  low  whistle. 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID  211 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  he  muttered,  as  though  a  new  light 
was  dawning  on  him.     "Ah,  noo  I  see." 

The  days  passed  on.  There  was  still  no  news  of  the 
missing  one,  and  Maggie 's  face  became  pitifully  white  and 
haggard. 

Of  course  she  did  not  believe  that  David  had  attempted 
to  murder  his  father,  desperately  tried  as  she  knew  he  had 
been.  Still,  it  was  a  terrible  thought  to  her  that  he  might 
at  any  moment  be  arrested;  and  her  girlish  imagination 
was  perpetually  conjuring  up  horrid  pictures  of  a  trial, 
conviction,  and  the  things  that  followed. 

Then  Sam'l  started  a  wild  theory  that  the  little  man  had 
murdered  his  son,  and  thrown  the  mangled  body  down  the 
dry  well  at  the  Grange.  The  story  was,  of  course,  pre- 
posterous, and,  coming  from  such  a  source,  might  well 
have  been  discarded  with  the  ridicule  it  deserved.  Yet  it 
served  to  set  the  cap  on  the  girl's  fears;  and  she  resolved, 
at  whatever  cost,  to  visit  the  Grange,  beard  M  'Adam,  and 
discover  whether  he  could  not  or  would  not  allay  her 
gnawing  apprehension. 

Her  intent  she  concealed  from  her  father,  knowing  well 
that  were  she  to  reveal  it  to  him,  he  would  gently  but 
firmly  forbid  the  attempt;  and  on  an  afternoon  some 
fortnight  after  David's  disappearance,  choosing  her 
opportunity,  she  picked  up  a  shawl,  threw  it  over  her  head, 
and  fled  with  palpitating  heart  out  of  the  farm  and  down 
the  slope  to  the  Wastrel. 

The  little  plank-bridge  rattled  as  she  tripped  across  it; 
and  she  fled  faster  lest  any  one  should  have  heard  and  come 
to  look.  And,  indeed,  at  the  moment  it  rattled  again 
behind  her,  and  she  started  guiltily  round.     It  proved, 


212  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

however,  to  be  only  Owd  Bob,  sweeping  after,  and  she  was 
glad. 

"Comin'  wi'  me,  lad?"  she  asked  as  the  old  dog 
cantered  up,  thankful  to  have  that  gray  protector  with 
her. 

Round  Langholm  now  fled  the  two  conspirators;  over 
the  summer-clad  lower  slopes  of  the  Pike,  until,  at  length, 
they  reached  the  Stony  Bottom.  Down  the  bramble- 
covered  bank  of  the  ravine  the  girl  slid;  picked  her  way 
from  stone  to  stone  across  the  streamlet  tinkling  in  that 
rocky  bed;  and  scrambled  up  the  opposite  bank. 

At  the  top  she  halted  and  looked  back.  The  smoke 
from  Kenmuir  was  winding  slowly  up  against  the  sky; 
to  her  right  the  low  gray  cottages  of  the  village  cuddled 
in  the  bosom  of  the  Dale;  far  away  over  the  Marches 
towered  the  gaunt  Scaur;  before  her  rolled  the  swelling 
slopes  of  the  Muir  Pike;  while  behind — she  glanced 
timidly  over  her  shoulder — was  the  hill,  at  the  top  of  which 
squatted  the  Grange,  lifeless,  cold,  scowling. 

Her  heart  failed  her.  In  her  whole  life  she  had  never 
spoken  to  M'Adam.  Yet  she  knew  him  well  enough  from 
all  David's  accounts — ay,  and  hated  him  for  David's  sake. 
She  hated  him  and  feared  him,  too;  feared  him  mortally — 
this  terrible  little  man.  And,  with  a  shudder,  she  recalled 
the  dim  face  at  the  window,  and  thought  of  his  notorious 
hatred  of  her  father.  But  even  M'Adam  could  hardly 
harm  a  girl  coming,  broken-hearted,  to  seek  her  lover. 
Besides,  was  not  Owd  Bob  with  her? 

And,  turning,  she  saw  the  old  dog  standing  a  little  way 
up  the  hill,  looking  back  at  her  as  though  he  wondered  why 
she  waited.  "Am  I  not  enough?"  the  faithful  gray  eyes 
seemed  to  say. 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID  213 

"Lad,  I'm  fear'd,"  was  her  answer  to  the  unspoken 
question. 

Yet  that  look  determined  her.  She  clenched  her  little 
teeth,  drew  the  shawl  about  her,  and  set  off  running  up  the 
hill. 

Soon  the  run  dwindled  to  a  walk,  the  walk  to  a  crawl, 
and  the  crawl  to  a  halt.  Her  breath  was  coming  painfully, 
and  her  heart  pattered  against  her  side  like  the  beatings  of 
an  imprisoned  bird.  Again  her  gray  guardian  looked  up, 
encouraging  her  forward. 

"Keep  close,  lad,"  she  whispered,  starting  forward 
afresh.  And  the  old  dog  ranged  up  beside  her,  shoving 
into  her  skirt,   as  though  to  let  her  feel  his   presence. 

So  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill;  and  the  house  stood 
before  them,  grim,  unfriendly. 

The  girl's  face  was  now  quite  white,  yet  set;  the  re- 
semblance to  her  father  was  plain  to  see.  With  lips 
compressed  and  breath  quick-coming,  she  crossed  the 
threshold,  treading  softly  as  though  in  a  house  of  the  dead. 
There  she  paused  and  lifted  a  warning  finger  at  her  com- 
panion, bidding  him  halt  without;  then  she  turned  to  the 
door  on  the  left  of  the  entrance  and  tapped. 

She  listened,  her  head  buried  in  the  shawl,  close  to  the 
wood  panelling.  There  was  no  answer;  she  could  only 
hear  the  drumming  of  her  heart. 

She  knocked  again.  From  within  came  the  scraping  of 
a  chair  cautiously  shoved  back,  followed  by  a  deep- 
mouthed  cavernous  growl. 

Her  heart  stood  still,  but  she  turned  the  handle  and 
entered,  leaving  a  crack  open  behind. 

On  the  far  side  the  room  a  little  man  was  sitting.  His 
head  was  swathed  in  dirty  bandages,  and  a  bottle  was  on 


214  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

the  table  beside  him.  He  was  leaning  forward;  his  face 
was  gray,  and  there  was  a  stare  of  naked  horror  in  his  eyes. 
One  hand  grasped  the  great  dog  who  stood  at  his  side,  with 
yellow  teeth  glinting,  and  muzzle  hideously  wrinkled: 
with  the  other  he  pointed  a  palsied  finger  at  her. 

"Ma  God!  wha  are  ye?"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

The  girl  stood  hard  against  the  door,  her  fingers  still  on 
the  handle;  trembling  like  an  aspen  at  the  sight  of  that 
uncannie  pair. 

That  look  in  the  little  man's  eyes  petrified  her:  the 
swollen  pupils;  lashless  lids,  yawning  wide;  the  broken 
range  of  teeth  in  that  gaping  mouth,  froze  her  very  soul. 
Rumours  of  the  man's  insanity  tided  back  on  her  memory. 

"I'm — I "  the  words  came  in  trembling  gasps. 

At  the  first  utterance,  however,  the  little  man's  hand 
dropped;  he  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  gave  a  soul- 
bursting  sigh  of  relief. 

No  woman  had  crossed  that  threshold  since  his  wife 
died;  and,  for  a  moment,  when  first  the  girl  had  entered 
silent-footed,  aroused  from  dreaming  of  the  long  ago,  he 
had  thought  this  shawl-clad  figure  with  the  pale  face  and 
peeping  hair  no  earthly  visitor;  the  spirit,  rather,  of  one 
he  had  loved  long  since  and  lost,  come  to  reproach  him 
with  a  broken  troth. 

"Speak  up,  I  canna  hear,"  he  said,  in  tones  mild 
compared  with  those  last  wild  words. 

"I — I'm  Maggie  Moore,"  the  girl  quavered. 

"Moore!  Maggie  Moore,  d'ye  say?"  he  cried,  half 
rising  from  his  chair,  a  flush  of  colour  sweeping  across  his 
face,  "the  dochter  o'  James  Moore?"  He  paused  for  an 
answer,  glowering  at  her;  and  she  shrank,  trembling, 
against  the  door. 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID  215 

The  little  man  leant  back  in  his  chair.  Gradually  a 
grim  smile  crept  across  his  countenance. 

"Weel,  Maggie  Moore,"  he  said,  half-amused,  "ony 
gate  ye 're  a  good  plucked  un."  And  his  wizened  coun- 
tenance looked  at  her  almost  kindly  from  beneath  its  dirty 
crown  of  bandages. 

At  that  the  girl's  courage  returned  with  a  rush.  After 
all  this  little  man  was  not  so  very  terrible.  Perhaps  he 
would  be  kind.  And  in  the  relief  of  the  moment,  the  blood 
swept  back  into  her  face. 

There  was  not  to  be  peace  yet,  however.  The  blush  was 
still  hot  upon  her  cheeks,  when  she  caught  the  patter  of  soft 
steps  in  the  passage  without.  A  dark  muzzle  flecked  with 
gray  pushed  in  at  the  crack  of  the  door;  two  anxious  gray 
eyes  followed. 

Before  she  could  wave  him  back,  Red  Wull  had  marked 
the  intruder.  With  a  roar  he  tore  himself  from  his 
master's  restraining  hand,  and  dashed  across  the  room. 

"Back,  Bob!"  screamed  Maggie,  and  the  dark  head 
withdrew.  The  door  slammed  with  a  crash  as  the  great 
dog  flung  himself  against  it,  and  Maggie  was  hurled, 
breathless  and  white-faced,  into  a  corner. 

M'Adam  was  on  his  feet,  pointing  with  a  shrivelled 
finger,  his  face  diabolical. 

"Did  you  bring  him?  Did  you  bring  that  to  ma 
door?" 

Maggie  huddled  in  the  corner  in  a  palsy  of  trepidation. 
Her  eyes  gleamed  big  and  black  in  the  white  face  peering 
from  the  shawl.  Red  Wull  was  now  beside  her  snarling 
horribly.  With  nose  to  the  bottom  of  the  door  and  busy 
paws  he  was  trying  to  get  out;  while,  on  the  other  side, 
Owd   Bob,   snuffling  also   at  the  crack,   scratched   and 


216  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

pleaded  to  get  in.  Only  two  miserable  wooden  inches 
separated  the  pair. 

"I  brought  him  to  protect  me.     I — I  was  afraid." 

M'Adam  sat  down  and  laughed  abruptly. 

"Afraid !  I  wonder  ye  were  na  afraid  to  bring  him  here. 
It's  the  first  time  iver  he's  set  foot  on  ma  land,  and  't  had 
best  be  the  last."  He  turned  to  the  great  dog.  "Wullie, 
Wullie,  wad  ye?"  he  called.  "Come  here.  Lay  ye 
doon — so — under  ma  chair — good  lad.  Noo's  no  the  time 
to  settle  wi'  him" — nodding  toward  the  door.  "We  can 
wait  for  that,  Wullie;  we  can  wait."  Then,  turning  to 
Maggie,  "Gin  ye  want  him  to  mak'  a  show  at  the  Trials 
two  months  hence,  he'd  best  not  come  here  agin.  Gin  he 
does,  he'll  no  leave  ma  land  alive;  Wullie '11  see  to  that. 
Noo,  what  is  't  ye  want  o'  me?" 

The  girl  in  the  corner,  scared  almost  out  of  her  senses  by 
this  last  occurrence,  remained  dumb. 

M'Adam  marked  her  hesitation,  and  grinned  sar- 
donically. 

"I  see  hoo  'tis,"  said  he;  "yer  dad's  sent  ye.  Aince 
before  he  wanted  somethin '  o'  me,  and  did  he  come  to  fetch 
it  himself  like  a  man  ?  Not  he.  He  sent  the  son  to  rob 
the  father."  Then,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  and 
glaring  at  the  girl,  "Ay,  and  mair  than  that!  The  night 
the  lad  set  on  me  he  cam'" — with  hissing  emphasis — - 
"straight  from  Kenmuir!"  He  paused  and  stared  at  her 
intently,  and  she  was  still  dumb  before  him.  "Gin  I'd 
ben  killed,  Wullie 'd  ha'  bin  disqualified  from  competin' 
for  the  Cup.  With  Adam  M 'Adam's  Red  Wull  oot  o' 
the  way — noo  d  'ye  see  ?     Noo  d'ye  onderstan'  ?" 

She  did  not,  and  he  saw  it  and  was  satisfied.  What  he 
had  been  saying  she  neither  knew  nor  cared.     She  only 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID  217 

remembered  the  object  of  her  mission;  she  only  saw  before 
her  the  father  of  the  man  she  loved;  and  a  wave  of  emotion 
surged  up  in  her  breast. 

She  advanced  timidly  toward  him,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"Eh,  Mr.  M'Adam,"  she  pleaded,  "I  come  to  ask  ye 
after  David."  The  shawl  had  slipped  from  her  head,  and 
lay  loose  upon  her  shoulders;  and  she  stood  before  him  with 
her  sad  face,  her  pretty  hair  all  tossed,  and  her  eyes  big 
with  unshed  tears — a  touching  suppliant. 

"Will  ye  no  tell  me  wheer  he  is  ?  I  'd  not  ask  it,  I 'd  not 
trouble  yo',  but  I  've  bin  waitin '  a  waefu '  while,  it  seems, 
and  I'm  wearyin'  for  news  o'  him." 

The  little  man  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Ah,  noo  I 
mind  me," — this  to  himself.  "You're  the  lass  as  is 
thinkin'  o'  marryin'  him?" 

"We're  promised,"  the  girl  answered  simply. 

"Weel,"  the  other  remarked,  "as  I  said  afore,  ye 're  a 
good  plucked  un."  Then,  in  a  tone  in  which,  despite  the 
cynicism,  a  certain  indefinable  sadness  was  blended,  "Gin 
he  mak's  you  as  good  husband  as  he  mad'  son  to  me,  ye '11 
ha'  made  a  maist  remairkable  match,  my  dear." 

Maggie  fired  in  a  moment. 

"A  good  feyther  makes  a  good  son,"  she  answered 
almost  pertly;  and  then,  with  infinite  tenderness,  "and 
I'm  prayin'  a  good  wife '11  make  a  good  husband." 

He  smiled  sccffingly. 

"I'm  feared  that'll  no  help  ye  much,"  he  said. 

But  the  girl  never  heeded  this  last  sneer,  so  set  was  she 
on  her  purpose.  She  had  heard  of  the  one  tender  place  in 
the  heart  of  this  little  man  with  the  tired  face  and  mocking 
tongue,  and  she  resolved  to  attain  her  end  by  appealing  to  it. 

"Yo'  loved  a  lass  yo'sel'  aince,  Mr.  M'Adam,"  she 


218  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

said.  "Hoo  would  yo'  ha'  felt  had  she  gone  away  and  left 
yo'?  Yo'd  ha'  bin  mad;  yo'  know  yo'  would.  And, 
Mr.  M'Adam,  I  love  the  lad  yer  wife  loved."  She  was 
kneeling  at  his  feet  now  with  both  hands  on  his  knees, 
looking  up  at  him.  Her  sad  face  and  quivering  lips 
pleaded  for  her  more  eloquently  than  any  words. 

The  little  man  was  visibly  touched. 

"Ay,  ay,  lass,  that's  enough,"  he  said,  trying  to  avoid 
those  big  beseeching  eyes  which  would  not  be  avoided. 

"Will  ye  no  tell  me?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  canna  tell  ye,  lass,  for  why,  I  dinna  ken,"  he  an- 
swered querulously.  In  truth,  he  was  moved  to  the  heart 
by  her  misery. 

The  girl's  last  hopes  were  dashed.  She  had  played  her 
last  card  and  failed.  She  had  clung  with  the  fervour  of 
despair  to  this  last  resource,  and  now  it  was  torn  from  her. 
She  had  hoped,  and  now  there  was  no  hope.  In  the 
anguish  of  her  disappointment  she  remembered  that  this 
was  the  man  who,  by  his  persistent  cruelty,  had  driven  her 
love  into  exile. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  back. 

"Nor  ken,  nor  care!"  she  cried  bitterly. 

At  the  words  all  the  softness  fled  from  the  little  man's 
face. 

"Ye  do  me  a  wrang,  lass;  ye  do  indeed,"  he  said, 
looking  up  at  her  with  an  assumed  ingenuousness  which, 
had  she  known  him  better,  would  have  warned  her  to 
beware.  "Gin  I  kent  where  the  lad  was  I'd  be  the  vairy 
first  to  let  you,  ami  the  p'lice,  ken  it  too;  eh,  Wullie! 
he!  he!"  He  chuckled  at  his  wit  and  rubbed  his  knees, 
regardless  of  the  contempt  blazing  in  the  girl 's  face. 

"I  canna  tell  ye  where  he  is  now,  but  ye'd  aiblins  care 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID  219 

to  hear  o'  when  I  saw  him  last."  He  turned  his  chair  the 
better  to  address  her.  "  'Twas  like  so:  I  was  sittin'  in 
this  vairy  chair  it  was,  asleep,  when  he  crep'  up  behind  an* 
lep'  on  ma  back.  I  knew  naethin'  o't  till  I  found  masel' 
on  the  floor  an'  him  kneelin'  on  me.  I  saw  by  the  look  on 
him  he  was  set  on  finishin'  me,  so  I  said " 

The  girl  waved  her  hand  at  him,  superbly  disdainful. 

"Yo'  ken  yo're  lyin',  ivery  word  o't,"  she  cried. 

The  little  man  hitched  his  trousers,  crossed  his  legs,  and 
yawned. 

"An  honest  lee  for  an  honest  purpose  is  a  matter  ony 
man  may  be  proud  of,  as  you'll  ken  by  the  time  you're 
my  years,  ma  lass." 

The  girl  slowly  crossed  the  room.  At  the  door  she 
turned. 

"Then  ye 'II  no  tell  me  wheer  he  is?"  she  asked  with  a 
heart-breaking  trill  in  her  voice. 

"On  ma  word,  lass,  I  dinna  ken,"  he  cried  half  passion^ 
ately. 

"On  your  word,  Mr.  M'Adam!"  she  said  with  a  quiet 
scorn  in  her  voice  that  might  have  stung  Iscariot. 

The  little  man  spun  round  in  his  chair,  an  angry  red 
dyeing  his  cheeks.  In  another  moment  he  was  suave  and 
smiling  again. 

"I  canna  tell  ye  where  he  is  noo,"  he  said,  unctuously; 
"but  aiblins,  I  could  let  ye  know  where'  hes  gaein'  to." 

"Can  yo'?  will  yo'?"  cried  the  simple  girl  all  un- 
suspecting. In  a  moment  she  was  across  the  room  and  at 
his  knees. 

"Closer,  and  I '11  whisper."  The  little  ear,  peeping  from 
its  nest  of  brown,  was  tremblingly  approached  to  his  lips. 
The  little  man  leant  forward  and  whispered  one  short, 


220  A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 

sharp  word,  then  sat  back,  grinning,  to  watch  the  effect  of 
his  disclosure. 

He  had  his  revenge,  an  unworthy  revenge  on  such  a 
victim.  And,  watching  the  girl's  face,  the  cruel  dis- 
appointment merging  in  the  heat  of  her  indignation,  he 
had  yet  enough  nobility  to  regret  his  triumph. 

She  sprang  from  him  as  though  he  were  unclean. 

"An'  yo'  his  father!"  she  cried,  in  burning  tones. 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  at  the  door  paused.  Her 
face  was  white  again  and  she  was  quite  composed. 

"If  David  did  strike  you,  you  drove  him  to  it,"  she 
said,  speaking  in  calm,  gentle  accents.  "Yo'  know,  none 
so  well,  whether  yo've  bin  a  good  feyther  to  him,  and  him 
no  mither,  poor  laddie!  Whether  yo've  bin  to  him  what 
she'd  ha'  had  yo'  be.  Ask  yer  conscience,  Mr.  M'Adam. 
An '  if  he  was  a  wee  aggravatin '  at  times,  had  he  no  reason  ? 
He'd  a  heavy  cross  to  bear,  had  David,  and  yo'  know  best 
if  yo'  helped  to  ease  it  for  him." 

The  little  man  pointed  to  the  door;  but  the  girl  paid  no 
heed. 

"D'yo'  think  when  yo'  were  cruel  to  him,  jeerin'  and 
fleerin ',  he  never  felt  it,  because  he  was  too  proud  to  show 
ye  ?  He  'd  a  big  saft  heart,  had  David,  beneath  the  varnish. 
Mony's  the  time  when  mither  was  alive,  I've  seen  him 
throw  himseP  into  her  arms,  sobbm',  and  cry,  'Eh,  if  I  had 
but  mither!  'Twas  different  when  mither  was  alive;  he 
was  kinder  to  me  then.  An '  noo  I  Ve  no  one;  I  'm  alone. ' 
An'  he'd  sob  and  sob  in  mither 's  arms,  and  she,  weepin* 
hersel',  would  comfort  him,  while  he,  wee  laddie,  would 
no  be  comforted,  cryin'  broken-like,  'There's  none  to  care 
for  me  noo;  I'm  alone.  Mither 's  left  me  and  eh!  I'm 
prayin'  to  be  wi'  her!'" 


A  MAN  AND  A  MAID 


221 


The  clear,  girlish  voice  shook.  M'Adam,  sitting  with 
face  averted,  waved  to  her,  mutely  ordering  her  to  be  gone. 
But  she  held  on,  gentle,  sorrowful,  relentless. 

"An'  what '11  yo'  say  to  his  mither  when  yo  meet  her, 
as  yo'  must  soon  noo,  and  she  asks  yo':  'An  what  o' 
David  ?  What  o'  th '  lad  I  left  wi'  yo',  Adam,  to  guard  and 
keep  for  me,  faithful  and  true,  till  this  Day?'  And  then 
yo'll  ha'  to  speak  the  truth,  God's  truth;  and  yo'll  ha' 
to  answer:  'Sin'  the  day  yo'  left  me  I  niver  said  a  kind  word 
to  the  lad.  I  niver  bore  wi'  him,  and  niver  tried  to.  And 
in  the  end  I  drove  him  by  persecution  to  try  and  murder 
me'.  Then  maybe  she'll  look  at  yo' — yo'  best  ken  hoo — 
and  she'll  say:  'Adam,  Adam!  is  this  what  I  deserved  fra 
yo  r 

The  gentle,  implacable  voice  ceased.  The  girl  turned 
and  slipped  softly  out  of  the  room;  and  M'Adam  was  left 
alone  to  his  thoughts  and  his  dead  wife's  memory. 

"Mither  and  father,  baith!  Mither  and  father,  baith!" 
rang  remorselessly  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


TH    OWD  UN 

THE  Black  Killer  still  cursed  the  land.  Sometimes 
there  would  be  a  cessation  in  the  crimes;  then  a 
shepherd,  going  his  rounds  would  notice  his  sheep  herding 
together,  packing  in  unaccustomed  squares;  a  raven, 
gorged  to  the  crop,  would  rise  before  him  and  flap  wearily 
away,  and  he  would  come  upon  the  murderer's  latest 
victim. 

The  Dalesmen  were  in  despair,  so  utterly  futile  had 
their  efforts  been.  There  was  no  proof;  no  hope,  no 
apparent  probability  that  the  end  was  near.  As  for  the 
Tailless  Tyke,  the  only  piece  of  evidence  against  him  had 
flown  with  David,  who,  as  it  chanced,  had  divulged  what 
he  had  seen  to  no  man. 

The  £100  reward  offered  had  brought  no  issue.  The 
police  had  done  nothing.  The  Special  Commissioner  had 
been  equally  successful.  After  the  affair  in  the  Scoop  the 
Killer  never  ran  a  risk,  yet  never  missed  a  chance. 


TH'  OWD  UN  223 

Then,  as  a  last  resource,  Jim  Mason  made  his  attempt. 
He  took  a  holiday  from  his  duties  and  disappeared  into  the 
wilderness.  Three  days  and  three  nights  no  man  saw  him. 
On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  he  reappeared,  haggard, 
unkempt,  a  furtive  look  haunting  his  eyes,  sullen  for  once, 
irritable,  who  had  never  been  irritable  before — to  confess 
his  failure.  Cross-examined  further,  he  answered  with 
unaccustomed  fierceness :  "  I  seed  nowt,  I  tell  ye.  Who 's 
the  liar  as  said  I  did?" 

But  that  night  his  missus  heard  him  in  his  sleep  conning 
over  something  to  himself  in  slow,  fearful  whisper,  "Two 
on    'em;  one    ahint    t'other.     The    first    big — bull-like; 

t'ither "    At  which  point  Mrs.  Mason  smote  him  a 

smashing  blow  in  the  ribs,  and  he  woke  in  a  sweat,  crying 
terribly,  "Who  said  I  seed " 


The  days  were  slipping  away;  the  summer  was  hot 
upon  the  land,  and  with  it  the  Black  Killer  was  forgot- 
ten; David  was  forgotton;  everything  sank  into  oblivion 
before  the  all-absorbing  interest  of  the  coming  Dale 
trials. 

The  long-anticipated  battle  for  the  Shepherds'  Trophy 
was  looming  close;  soon  everything  that  hung  upon  the 
issue  of  that  struggle  would  be  decided  finally.  For  ever 
the  justice  of  Th'  Owd  Un'  claim  to  his  proud  title  would 
be  settled.  If  he  won,  he  won  outright — a  thing  un- 
precedented in  the  annals  of  the  Cup;  if  he  won,  the  place 
of  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir  as  first  in  his  profession  was 
assured  for  all  time.  Above  all,  it  was  the  last  event  in 
the  six  years'  struggle  'twixt  Red  and  Gray,  It  was  the 
last  time  those  two  great  rivals  would  meet  in  battle. 


224  TH'  OWD  UN 

The  supremacy  of  one  would  be  decided  once  and  for  all. 
For  win  or  lose,  it  was  the  last  public  appearance  of  the 
Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir. 

And  as  every  hour  brought  the  great  day  nearer,  nothing 
else  was  talked  of  in  the  country-side.  The  heat  of  the 
Dalesmen's  enthusiasm  was  only  intensified  by  the  fever 
of  their  apprehension.  Many  a  man  would  lose  more 
than  he  cared  to  contemplate  were  Th'  Owd  Un  beat. 
But  he'd  not  be!  Nay;  owd,  indeed,  he  was — two  years 
older  than  his  great  rival;  there  were  a  hundred  risks,  a 
hundred  chances;  still:  "What's  the  odds  agin  Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir?  I'm  takin'  'em.  Who'll  lay  agin  Th* 
OwdUn?" 

And  with  the  air  saturated  with  this  perpetual  talk  of 
the  old  dog,  these  everlasting  references  to  his  certain 
victory;  his  ears  drumming  with  the  often  boast  that  the 
gray  dog  was  the  best  in  the  North,  M'Adam  became  the 
silent,  ill-designing  man  of  six  months  since — morose, 
brooding,  suspicious,  muttering  of  conspiracy,  plotting 
revenge. 

The  scenes  at  the  Sylvester  Arms  were  replicas  of  those 
of  previous  years.  Usually  the  little  man  sat  isolated  in  a 
far  corner,  silent  and  glowering,  with  Red  Wull  at  his 
feet.  Now  and  then  he  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  insane 
giggling,  slapping  his  thigh,  and  muttering,  "Ay,  it's 
likely  they'll  beat  us,  Wullie.  Yet  aiblins  there's  a  wee 
somethin' — a  somethin'  we  ken  and  they  dinna,  Wullie, — 
eh!  Wullie,  he!  he!"  And  sometimes  he  would  leap  to  his 
feet  and  address  his  pot-house  audience,  appealing  to  them 
passionately,  satirically,  tearfully,  as  the  mood  might  be 
on  him;  and  his  theme  was  always  the  same:  James 
Moore,  Owd  Bob,  the  Cup,  and  the  plots  agin  him  and  his 


TH'  OWD  UN  225 

Wullie;  and  always  he  concluded  with  that  hint  of  the 
surprise  to  come. 

Meantime,  there  was  no  news  of  David;  he  had  gone  as 
utterly  as  a  ship  foundered  in  mid-Atlantic.  Some  said 
he'd  'listed;  some,  that  he'd  gone  to  sea.  And  "So  he 
'as,"  corroborated  Sam'l,  "floatin',  'eels  uppards." 

With  no  gleam  of  consolation,  Maggie's  misery  was  such 
as  to  rouse  compassion  in  all  hearts.  She  went  no  longer 
blithely  singing  about  her  work;  and  all  the  springiness 
had  fled  from  her  gait.  The  people  of  Kenmuir  vied  with 
one  another  in  their  attempts  to  console  their  young 
mistress. 

Maggie  was  not  the  only  one  in  whose  life  David's 
absence  had  created  a  void.  Last  as  he  would  have  been 
to  own  it,  M'Adam  felt  acutely  the  boy's  loss.  It  may 
have  been  he  missed  the  ever-present  butt;  it  may  have 
been  a  nobler  feeling.  Alone  with  Red  Wull,  too  late  he 
felt  his  loneliness.  Sometimes,  sitting  in  the  kitchen  by 
himself,  thinking  of  the  past,  he  experienced  sharp  pangs 
of  remorse;  and  this  was  all  the  more  the  case  after 
Maggie's  visit.  Subsequent  to  that  day  the  little  man, 
to  do  him  justice,  was  never  known  to  hint  by  word  or 
look  an  ill  thing  of  his  enemy's  daughter.  Once,  indeed, 
when  Melia  Ross  was  drawing  on  a  dirty  imagination  with 
Maggie  for  subject,  M'Adam  shut  her  up  with:  "Ye 're 
a  maist  amazin'  big  liar,  Melia  Ross." 

Yet,  though  for  the  daughter  he  had  now  no  evil  thought 
his  hatred  for  the  father  had  never  been  so  uncompromis- 
ing. 

He  grew  reckless  in  his  assertions.  His  life  was  one 
long   threat   against   James   Moore's.     Now   he   openly 


226  TH'  OWD  UN 

stated  his  conviction  that,  on  the  eventful  night  of  the 
fight,  James  Moore,  with  object  easily  discernible,  had 
egged  David  on  to  murder  him. 

"Then  why  don't  yo'  go  and  tell  him  so,  yo'  muckle 
liar?"  roared  Tammas  at  last,  enraged  to  madness. 

"I  will!"  said  M'Adam.     And  he  did. 

It  was  on  the  day  preceding  the  great  summer  sheep 
fair  at  Grammoch-town  that  he  fulfilled  his  vow. 

That  is  always  a  big  field-day  at  Kenmuir;  and  on  this 
occasion  James  Moore  and  Owd  Bob  had  been  up  and 
working  on  the  Pike  from  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Through- 
cut  the  straggling  lands  of  Kenmuir  the  Master  went  with 
his  untiring  adjutant,  rounding  up,  cutting  out,  drafting. 
It  was  already  noon  when  the  flock  started  from  the 
yard. 

On  the  gate  by  the  stile,  as  the  party  came  up,  sat 
M'Adam. 

"I've  a  word  to  say  to  you,  James  Moore,"  he  an- 
nounced, as  the  Master  approached. 

"Say  it  then,  and  quick.  I've  no  time  to  stand 
gossipin'  here,  if  yo'  have,"  said  the  Master. 

M  'Adam  strained  forward  till  he  nearly  toppled  off  the 
gate. 

"Queer  thing,  James  Moore,  you  should  be  the  only  one 
to  escape  this  Killer." 

"Yo'  forget  yoursel',  M'Adam." 

"Ay,  there's  me,"  acquiesced  the  little  man.  "But 
you — hoo  d  'yo '  'count  for  your  luck  ?" 

James  Moore  swung  round  and  pointed  proudly  at 
the  gray  dog,  now  patrolling  round  the  flock. 

"There's  my  luck!"  he  said. 


TH'  OWD  UN  227 

M'Adam  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"So  I  thought,"  he  said,  "so  I  thought!  And  I  s'pose 
ye 're  thinkin'  that  yer  luck,"  nodding  at  the  gray  dog, 
"will  win  you  the  Cup  for  certain  a  month  hence." 

"I  hope  so!"  said  the  Master. 

"Strange  if  he  should  not  after  all,"  mused  the  little 
man. 

James  Moore  eyed  him  suspiciously. 

"What  d'yo'  mean?"  he  asked  sternly. 

M'Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There's  mony  a  slip  'twixt  Cup  and  lip,  that's  a'. 
I  was  thinkin'  some  mischance  might  come  to  him." 

The  Master's  eyes  flashed  dangerously.  He  recalled  the 
many  rumours  he  had  heard,  and  the  attempt  on  the  old  dog 
early  in  the  year. 

"I  canna  think  ony  one  would  be  coward  enough  to 
murder  him,"  he  said  drawing  himself  up. 

M'Adam  leant  forward.  There  was  a  nasty  glitter  in 
his  eye,  and  his  face  was  all  a-tremble. 

"Ye'd  no  think  ony  one'd  be  cooard  enough  to  set  the 
son  to  murder  the  father.  Yet  some  one  did — set  the  lad 
on  to  'sassinate  me.  He  failed  at  me,  and  next,  I  suppose, 
he'll  try  at  Wullie!"  There  was  a  flush  on  the  sallow  face, 
and  a  vindictive  ring  in  the  thin  voice.  "One  way  or 
t'ither,  fair  or  foul,  Wullie  or  me,  ain  or  baith,  has  got  to 
go  afore  Cup  Day,  eh,  James  Moore !     eh  ?" 

The  Master  put  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  gate, 
"That'll  do,  M'Adam,"  he  said.  "I'll  stop  to  hear  no 
more,  else  I  might  get  angry  wi'  yo'.  Noo  git  off  this 
gate,  yo're  trespassin'  as  'tis." 

He  shook  the  gate.  M'Adam  tumbled  off,  and  went 
sprawling  into  the  sheep  clustered  below.     Picking  himself 


228  TH'  OWD  UN 

up,  he  dashed  on  through  the  flock,  waving  his  arms, 
kicking  fantastically,  and  scattering  confusion  everywhere. 

"Just  wait  till  I  'm  thro'  wi'  'em,  will  yo'  ?"  shouted  the 
Master,  seeing  the  danger. 

It  was  a  request  which,  according  to  the  etiquette  of 
shepherding,  one  man  was  bound  to  grant  another.  But 
M'Adam  rushed  on  regardless,  dancing  and  gesticulating. 
Save  for  the  lightning  vigilance  of  Owd  Bob,  the  flock  must 
have  broken. 

"I  think  yo'  might  ha'  waited!"  remonstrated  the 
Master,  as  the  little  man  burst  his  way  through. 

"Noo,  I've  forgot  somethin'!"  the  other  cried,  and 
back  he  started  as  he  had  gone. 

It  was  more  than  human  nature  could  tolerate. 

"Bob,  keep  him  ofF!" 

A  flash  of  teeth;  a  blaze  of  gray  eyes;  and  the  old  dog 
had  leapt  forward  to  oppose  the  little  man's   advance. 

"Shift  oot  o'  ma  light!"  cried  he,  striving  to  dash  past. 
"Hold  him,  lad!" 

And  hold  him  the  old  dog  did,  while  his  master  opened 
the  gate  and  put  the  flock  through,  the  opponents  dodging 
in  front  of  one  another  like  opposing  three-quarter-backs 
at  the  Rugby  game. 

"Oot  o'  ma  path,  or  I'll  strike!"  shouted  the  little 
man  in  a  fury,  as  the  last  sheep  passed  through  the  gate. 

"I'd  not,"  warned  the  Master. 

"But  I  will!"  yelled  M'Adam;  and,  darting  forward 
as  the  gate  swung  to,  struck  furiously  at  his  opponent. 

He  missed,  and  the  gray  dog  charged  at  him  like  a  mail- 
train. 

"Hi!     James    Moore "  but   over   he   went   like   a 

toppled  wheelbarrow,  while  the  old  dog  turned  again,  raced 


TH'  OWD  UN  229 

at  the  gate,  took  it  magnificently  in  his  stride,  and  galloped 
up  the  lane  after  his  master. 

At  M 'Adam's  yell,  James  Moore  had  turned. 

"Served  yo'  properly!"  he  called  back.  "He'll  larn 
ye  yet  it's  not  wise  to  tamper  wi'  a  gray  dog  or  his  sheep. 
Not  the  first  time  he 's  downed  ye,  I  'm  thinkin' !" 

The  little  man  raised  himself  painfully  to  his  elbow  and 
crawled  toward  the  gate.  The  Master,  up  the  lane,  could 
hear  him  cursing  as  he  dragged  himself.  Another  moment 
and  a  head  was  poked  through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  and  a 
devilish  little  face  looked  after  him. 

"Downed  me,  by ,  he  did!"  the  little  man  cried 

passionately.     "I  owed  ye  baith    somethin'  before  this, 

and  noo,  by ,  I  owe  ye  somethin '  more.     An '  mind  ye, 

Adam  M'Adam  pays  his  debts!" 

"I've  heard  the  contrary,"  the  Master  replied  drily, 
and  turned  away  up  the  lane  toward  the  Marches. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


A   SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT 


IT  WAS  only  three  short  weeks  before  Cup  Day  that 
one  afternoon  Jim  Mason  brought  a  letter  to  Kenmuir. 
James  Moore  opened  it  as  the  postman  still  stood  in  the 
door. 

It  was  from  Long  Kirby — still  in  retirement — begging 
him  for  mercy's  sake  to  keep  Owd  Bob  safe  within  doors 
at  nights;  at  all  events  till  after  the  great  event  was  over. 
For  Kirby  knew,  as  did  every  Dalesman,  that  the  old  dog 
slept  in  the  porch,  between  the  two  doors  of  the  house,  of 
which  the  outer  was  only  loosely  closed  by  a  chain,  so  that 
the  ever-watchful  guardian  might  slip  in  and  out  and  go 
his  rounds  at  any  moment  of  the  night. 

This  was  how  the  smith  concluded  his  ill-spelt  note: 
"Look  out  for  M'Adam  i  tell  you  i  know  hel  tri  at  thowd 
un  afore  cup  day — failin  im  you.  if  the  ole  dog's  bete 
i  'm  a  ruined  man  i  say  so  for  the  luv  o'  God  keep  yer  eyes 
wide." 

330 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT  231 

The  Master  read  the  letter,  and  handed  it  to  the 
postman,  who  perused  it  carefully. 

"I  tell  yo'  what,"  said  Jim  at  length,  speaking  with  an 
earnestness  that  made  the  other  stare,  "I  wish  yo'd  do 
what  he  asks  yo':  keep  Th'  Owd  Un  in  o'  nights,  I  mean, 
just  for  the  present." 

The  Master  shook  his  head  and  laughed,  tearing  the 
letter  to  pieces. 

"Nay,"  said  he;  "M'Adam  or  no  M'Adam,  Cup  or  no 
Cup,  Th'  Owd  Un  has  the  run  o'  ma  land  same  as  he's  had 
since  a  puppy.  Why,  Jim,  the  first  night  I  shut  him  up 
that  night  the  Killer  comes,  I'll  lay." 

The  postman  turned  wearily  away,  and  the  Master  stood 
looking  after  him,  wondering  what  had  come  of  late  to  his 
former  cheery  friend. 

Those  two  were  not  the  only  warnings  James  Moore 
received.  During  the  weeks  immediately  preceding  the 
Trials,  the  danger  signal  was  perpetually  flaunted  beneath 
his  nose. 

Twice  did  Watch,  the  black  cross-bred  chained  in  the 
straw-yard,  hurl  a  brazen  challenge  on  the  night  air. 
Twice  did  the  Master,  with  lantern,  Sam'l  and  Owd  Bob, 
sally  forth  and  search  every  hole  and  corner  on  the 
premises — to  find  nothing.  One  of  the  dairy-maids  gave 
notice,  avowing  that  the  farm  was  haunted;  that,  on 
several  occasions  in  the  early  morning,  she  had  seen  a 
bogie  flitting  down  the  slope  to  the  Wastrel — a  sure  portent, 
Sam'l  declared,  of  an  approaching  death  in  the  house. 
While  once  a  shearer,  coming  up  from  the  village,  reported 
having  seen,  in  the  twilight  of  dawn,  a  little  ghostly  figure, 
haggard  and  startled,  stealing  silently  from  tree  to  tree  in 
the    larch-copse    by   the    lane.     The   Master,    however, 


232  A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT 

irritated  by  these  constant  alarms,  dismissed  the  story 
summarily. 

"One  thing  I'm  sartin  q',"  said  he.  "There's  not  a 
critter  moves  on  Kenmuir  at  nights  but  Th'  Owd  Un 
knows  it." 

Yet,  even  as  he  said  it,  a  little  man,  draggled,  weary- 
eyed,  smeared  with  dew  and  dust,  was  limping  in  at  the 
door  of  a  house  barely  a  mile  away.  "Nae  luck,  Wullie, 
curse  it!"  he  cried  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  and 
addressing  some  one  who  was  not  there — "nae  luck. 
An'  yet  I'm  sure  o't  as  I  am  that  there's  a  God  in  heaven. ' 


M'Adam  had  become  an  old  man  of  late.  But  little 
more  than  fifty,  yet  he  looked  to  have  reached  man's 
allotted  years.  His  sparse  hair  was  quite  white;  his 
body  shrunk  and  bowed;  and  his  thin  hand  shook  like  an 
aspen  as  it  groped  to  the  familiar  bottle. 

In  another  matter,  too,  he  was  altogether  changed. 
Formerly,  whatever  his  faults,  there  had  been  no  harder- 
working  man  in  the  country-side.  At  all  hours,  in  all 
weathers,  you  might  have  seen  him  with  his  gigantic 
attendant  going  his  rounds.  Now  all  that  was  different: 
he  never  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  with  none  to 
help  him  the  land  was  left  wholly  untended;  so  that  men 
said  that,  of  a  surety,  there  would  be  a  farm  to  let  on  the 
March  Mere  Estate  come  Michaelmas. 

Instead  of  working,  the  little  man  sat  all  day  in  the 
kitchen  at  home,  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  and  brewing 
vengeance.  Even  the  Sylvester  Arms  knew  him  no  more; 
for  he  stayed  where  he  was  with  his  dog  and  his  bottle. 
Only,  when  the  shroud  of  night  had  come  down  to  cove? 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT  233 

him,  he  slipped  out  and  away  on  some  errand  on  which  not 
even  Red  Wull  accompanied  him. 


So  the  time  glided  on,  till  the  Sunday  before  the  Trials 
came  round. 

All  that  day  M'Adam  sat  in  his  kitchen,  drinking, 
muttering,  hatching  revenge. 

"Curse  it,  Wullie!  curse  it!  The  time's  slippin' — 
slippin' — slippin'!  Thursday  next — but  three  days  mair! 
and  I  haena  the  proof — I  haena  the  proof!" — and  he 
rocked  to  and  fro,  biting  his  nails  in  the  agony  of  his 
impotence. 

All  day  long  he  never  moved.  Long  after  sunset  he 
sat  on;  long  after  dark  had  eliminated  the  features  of  the 
room. 

"They're  all  agin  us,  Wullie.  It's  you  and  I  alane,  lad. 
M 'Adam's  to  be  beat  somehow,  onyhow;  and  Moore's 
fo  win.  So  they've  settled  it,  and  so  'twill  be — onless, 
Wullie,  onless — but  curse  it!  I've  no  the  proof!" — and 
he  hammered  the  table  before  him  and  stamped  on  the 
floor. 

At  midnight  he  rose,  a  mad,  desperate  plan  looming 
through  his  fuddled  brain. 

"I  swore  I'd  pay  him,  Wullie,  and  I  will.  If  I  hang  for 
it  I'll  be  even  wi'  him.  I  haena  the  proof,  but  I  know — 
I  knozvl"  He  groped  his  way  to  the  mantelpiece  with 
blind  eyes  and  swirling  brain.  Reaching  up  with  fumbling 
hands,  he  took  down  the  old  blunderbuss  from  above  the 
fireplace. 

"Wullie,"  he  whispered,  chuckling  hideously,  "Wullie, 
come  on!    You  and  I — he!  he!"     But  the  Tailless  Tyke 


234  A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT 

was  not  there.  At  nightfall  he  had  slouched  silently  out  of 
the  house  on  business  he  best  wot  of.  So  his  master  crept 
out  of  the  room  alone — on  tiptoe,  still  chuckling. 

The  cool  night  air  refreshed  him,  and  he  stepped 
stealthily  along,  his  quaint  weapon  over  his  shoulder: 
down  the  hill;  across  the  Bottom;  skirting  the  Pike;  till 
he  reached  the  plank-bridge  over  the  Wastrel. 

He  crossed  it  safely,  that  Providence  whose  care  is 
drunkards  placing  his  footsteps.  Then  he  stole  up  the 
slope  like  a  hunter  stalking  his  prey. 

Arrived  at  the  gate,  he  raised  himself  cautiously,  and 
peered  over  into  the  moonlit  yard.  There  was  no  sign  or 
sound  of  living  creature.  The  little  gray  house  slept 
peacefully  in  the  shadow  of  the  Pike,  all  unaware  of  the 
man  with  murder  in  his  heart  laboriously  climbing  the 
yard-gate. 

The  door  of  the  porch  was  wide,  the  chain  hanging 
limply  down,  unused;  and  the  little  man  could  see  within, 
the  moon  shining  on  the  iron  studs  of  the  inner  door,  and 
the  blanket  of  him  who  should  have  slept  there,  and  did  not. 

"He's  no  there,  Wullie!     He's  no  there!" 

He  jumped  down  from  the  gate.  Throwing  all  caution 
to  the  winds,  he  reeled  recklessly  across  the  yard.  The 
drunken  delirium  of  battle  was  on  him.  The  fever  of 
anticipated  victory  flushed  his  veins.  At  length  he  would 
take  toll  for  the  injuries  of  years. 

Another  moment,  and  he  was  in  front  of  the  good  oak 
door,  battering  at  it  madly  with  clubbed  weapon,  yelling, 
dancing,  screaming  vengeance. 

"Where  is  he?  What's  he  at?  Come  and  tell  me 
that,  James  Moore!  Come  doon,  I  say,  ye  coward! 
Come  and  meet  me  like  a  man!" 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT  235 

"'Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led — ■ 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed 
Or  to  victorie!'" 

The  soft  moonlight  streamed  down  on  the  white-haired 
madman  thundering  at  the  door,  screaming  his  war-song. 

The  quiet  farmyard,  startled  from  its  sleep,  awoke  in 
an  uproar.  Cattle  shifted  in  their  stalls;  horses  whin- 
nied; fowls  chattered,  aroused  by  the  din  and  dull  thud- 
ding of  the  blows :  and  above  the  rest,  loud  and  piercing, 
the  shrill  cry  of  a  terrified  child. 

Maggie,  wakened  from  a  vivid  dream  of  David  chasing 
the  police,  hurried  a  shawl  around  her,  and  in  a  minute  had 
the  baby  in  her  arms  and  was  comforting  her — vaguely 
fearing  the  while  that  the  police  were  after  David. 

James  Moore  flung  open  a  window,  and,  leaning  out, 
looked  down  on  the  dishevelled  figure  below  him. 

M'Adam  heard  the  noise,  glanced  up,  and  saw  his 
enemy.  Straightway  he  ceased  his  attack  on  the  door, 
and,  running  beneath  the  window,  shook  his  weapon  up  at 
his  foe. 

"There  ye  are,  are  ye?  Curse  ye  for  a  coward!  curse 
ye  for  a  liar!  Come  doon,  I  say,  James  Moore!  Come  doon 
— I  daur  ye  to  it !   Aince  and  for  a '  let 's  settle  oor  account." 

The  Master,  looking  down  from  above,  thought  that 
at  length  the  little  man's  brain  had  gone. 

"What  is't  yo'  want?"  he  asked  as  calmly  as  he  could, 
hoping  to  gain  time. 

"What  is't  I  want?"  screamed  the  madman.  "Hark 
to  him!  He  crosses  me  in  ilka  thing;  he  plots  agin  me; 
he  robs  me  o'  ma  Cup;  he  sets  ma  son  agin  me  and  pits 
him  on  to  murder  me !    And  in  the  end  he " 


236  A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT 

"Coom,  then  coom!     I  '11 " 

"Gie  me  back  the  Cup  ye  stole,  James  Moore!  Gie 
me  back  ma  son  ye've  took  from  me!  And  there's  anither 
thing.     What's  yer  gray  dog  doin'?     Where's  yer " 

The  Master  interposed  again: 

"I'll  coom  doon  and  talk  things  over  wi'  yo',''  he  said 
soothingly.  But  before  he  could  withdraw,  M  'Adam  had 
jerked  his  weapon  to  his  shoulder  and  aimed  it  full  at  his 
enemy's  head. 

The  threatened  man  looked  down  the  gun's  great 
quivering  mouth,  wholly  unmoved. 

"Yo'  mon  hold  it  steadier,  little  mon,  if  yo'd  hit!" 
he  said  grimly.  "There,  I'll  coom  help  yo'!"  He  with- 
drew slowly;  and  all  the  time  was  wondering  where  the 
gray  dog  was. 

In  another  moment  he  was  downstairs,  undoing  the 
bolts  and  bars  of  the  door.  On  the  other  side  stood 
M'Adam,  his  blunderbuss  at  his  shoulder,  his  finger 
trembling  on  the  trigger,  waiting. 

"Hi,  Master!  Stop,  or  yo're  dead!"  roared  a  voice 
from  the  loft  on  the  other  side  the  yard. 

"Feyther!  feyther!  git  yo'  back!"  screamed  Maggie, 
who  saw  it  all  from  the  window  above  the  door. 

Their  cries  were  too  late!  The  blunderbuss  went  off 
with  a  roar,  belching  out  a  storm  of  sparks  and  smoke. 
The  shot  peppered  the  door  like  hail,  and  the  whole  yard 
seemed  for  a  moment  wrapped  in  flame. 

"Aw!  oh!  ma  gummy!  A'rnwaounded!  A'magoner! 
A'm  shot!  'Elp!  Murder!  Eh!  Oh!"  bellowed  a  lusty 
voices — and  it  was  not  James  Moore's. 

The  little  man,  the  cause  of  the  uproar,  lay  quite  still 
with  another  figure  standing  over  him.     As  he  had  stood 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT  237 

iinger  on  trigger,  waiting  for  that  last  bolt  to  be  drawn,  a 
gray  form,  shooting  whence  no  one  knew,  had  suddenly 
and  silently  attacked  him  from  behind,  and  jerked  him 
backward  to  the  ground.  With  the  shock  of  the  fall  the 
blunderbuss  had  gone  off. 

The  last  bolt  was  thrown  back  with  a  clatter,  and  the 
Master  emerged.  In  a  glance  he  took  in  the  whole  scene: 
the  fallen  man;  the  gray  dog;  the  still-smoking  weapon. 

"Yo',  was't  Bob  lad?"  he  said.  "I  was  wonderin* 
wheer  yo'  were.  Yo'  came  just  at  the  reet  moment,  as 
yo'  aye  do!"  Then,  in  a  loud  voice,  addressing  the 
darkness:  "Yo're  not  hurt,  Sam'l  Todd — I  can  tell  that 
by  yer  noise;  it  was  nob 'but  the  shot  off  the  door  warmed 
yo'.     Coom  away  doon  and  gie  me  a  hand." 

He  walked  up  to  M'Adam,  who  still  lay  gasping  on  the 
ground.  The  shock  of  the  fall  and  recoil  of  the  weapon 
had  knocked  the  breath  out  of  the  little  man's  body; 
beyond  that  he  was  barely  hurt. 

The  Master  stood  over  his  fallen  enemy  and  looked 
sternly  down  at  him. 

"I've  put  up  wi'  more  from  you,  M'Adam,  than  I  would 
from  ony  other  man,"  he  said.  "But  this  is  too  much — 
comin'  here  at  night  wi'  loaded  arms,  scarin '  the  wimmen 
and  childer  oot  o'  their  lives,  and  I  can  but  think  meanin' 
worse.  If  yo'  were  half  a  man  I'd  gie  yo'  the  finest 
thrashin'  iver  yo'  had  in  yer  life.  But,  as  yo'  know  well,  I 
could  no  more  hit  yo'  than  I  could  a  woman.  Why  yo've 
got  this  down  on  me  yo'  ken  best.  I  niver  did  yo'  or  ony 
ither  mon  a  harm.  As  to  the  Cup,  I've  got  it  and  I'm 
goin'  to  do  ma  best  to  keep  it — it's  for  yo'  to  win  it  from 
me  if  yo'  can  o'  Thursday.  As  for  what  yo'  say  o1 
David,  yo'  know  it's  a  lie.    And  as  for  what  yo're  drivin' 


238  A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT 

at  wi*  yer  hints  and  mysteries,  I've  no  more  idee  than  a 
babe  unborn.  Noo  I'm  goin'  to  lock  yo'  up,  yo're  not 
safe  abroad.  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  ha'  to  hand  ye  o'er  to  the 
p'lice." 

With  the  help  of  Sam'l  he  half  dragged,  half  supported 
the  stunned  little  man  across  the  yard;  and  shoved  him 
into  a  tiny  semi-subterraneous  room,  used  for  the  storage 
of  coal,  at  the  end  of  the  farm-buildings. 

"  Yo'  think  it  over  that  side,  ma  lad,"  called  the  Master 
grimly,  as  he  turned  the  key,  "and  I  will  this."  And 
with  that  he  retired  to  bed. 


Early  in  the  morning  he  went  to  release  his  prisoner. 
But  he  was  a  minute  too  late.  For  scuttling  down  the 
slope  and  away  was  a  little  black-begrimed,  tottering 
figure  with  white  hair  blowing  in  the  wind.  The  little 
man  had  broken  away  a  wooden  hatchment  which  covered 
a  manhole  in  the  wall  of  his  prison-house,  squeezed  his 
small  body  through,  and  so  escaped. 

"Happen  it's  as  well,"  thought  the  Master,  watching 
the  flying  figure.  Then,  "Hi,  Bob,  lad!"  he  called;  for 
the  gray  dog,  ears  back,  tail  streaming,  was  hurling  down 
the  slope  after  the  fugitive. 

On  the  bridge  M'Adam  turned,  and,  seeing  his  pursuer 
hot  upon  him,  screamed,  missed  his  footing,  and  fell  with  a 
loud  splash  into  the  stream — almost  in  that  identical  spot 
into  which,  years  before,  he  had  plunged  voluntarily  to 
save  Red  Wull. 

On  the  bridge  Owd  Bob  halted  and  looked  down  at  the 
man  struggling  in  the  water  below.  He  made  a  half  move 
as  though  to  leap  in  to  the  rescue  of  his  enemy;  then, 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  NIGHT  239 

seeing  it  was  unnecessary,  turned  and  trotted  back  to  his 
master. 

"Yo'  nob 'but  served  him  right,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  the 
Master.  "Like  as  not  he  came  here  wi'  the  intent  to  mak' 
an  end  to  yo\  Well,  after  Thursday,  I  pray  God,  we'll 
ha'  peace.  It's  gettin'  above  a  joke."  The  two  turned 
back  into  the  yard. 

But  down  below  them,  along  the  edge  of  the  stream,  for 
the  second  time  in  this  story,  a  little  dripping  figure  was 
tottering  homeward.  The  little  man  was  crying — the  hot 
tears  mingling  on  his  cheeks  with  the  undried  waters  of  the 
Wastrel — crying  with  rage,  mortification,  weariness. 


CHAPTER    XXV 


THE    SHEPHERDS     TROPHY 


CUP  Day. 
It  broke  calm  and  beautiful,  no  cloud  on  the  hori- 
zon, no  threat  of  storm  in  the  air;  a  fitting  day  on  which 
the  Shepherds'  Trophy  must  be  won  outright. 

And  well  it  was  so.  For  never  since  the  founding  of  the 
Dale  Trials  had  such  a  concourse  been  gathered  together 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Silver  Lea.  From  the  High- 
lands they  came;  from  the  far  Campbell  country;  from 
the  Peak;  from  the  county  of  many  acres;  from  all  along 
the  silver  fringes  of  the  Solway;  assembling  in  that  quiet 
corner  of  the  earth  to  see  the  famous  Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir 
fight  his  last  great  battle  for  the  Shepherds'  Trophy. 

By  noon  the  gaunt  Scaur  looked  down  on  such  a  gather- 
ing as  it  had  never  seen.  The  paddock  at  the  back  of  the 
Dalesman's  Daughter  was  packed  with  a  clammering, 
chattering  multitude:  animated  groups  of  farmers;  bev- 
ies of  solid  rustics;  sharp-faced   townsmen;  loud-voiced 

tfOj 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  241 

bookmakers;  giggling  girls;  amorous  boys, — thrown  to- 
gether like  toys  in  a  sawdust  bath;  whilst  here  and  there 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  a  lonely  man  and  wise-faced 
dog,  come  from  afar  to  wrest  his  proud  title  from  the  best 
sheep-dog  in  the  North. 

At  the  back  of  the  enclosure  was  drawn  up  a  formidable 
array  of  carts  and  carriages,  varying  as  much  in  quality 
and  character  as  did  their  owners.  There  was  the  squire's 
landau  rubbing  axle-boxes  with  Jem  Burton's  modest 
moke-cart;  and  there  Viscount  Birdsaye's  flaring  bar- 
ouche side  by  side  with  the  red-wheeled  wagon  of  Kenmuir. 

In  the  latter,  Maggie,  sad  and  sweet  in  her  simple 
summer  garb,  leant  over  to  talk  to  Lady  Eleanour;  while 
golden-haired  wee  Anne,  delighted  with  the  surging  crowd 
around,  trotted  about  the  wagon,  waving  to  her  friends, 
and  shouting  from  very  joyousness. 

Thick  as  flies  clustered  that  motley  assembly  on  the 
north  bank  of  the  Silver  Lea.  While  on  the  other  side  the 
stream  was  a  little  group  of  judges,  inspecting  the  course. 

The  line  laid  out  ran  thus:  the  sheep  must  first  be 
found  in  the  big  enclosure  to  the  right  of  the  starting  flag; 
then  up  the  slope  and  away  from  the  spectators;  around  a 
flag  and  obliquely  down  the  hill  again;  through  a  gap  in 
the  wall;  along  the  hillside,  parallel  to  the  Silver  Lea; 
abruptly  to  the  left  through  a  pair  of  flags — the  trickiest 
turn  of  them  all;  then  down  the  slope  to  the  pen,  which 
was  set  up  close  to  the  bridge  over  the  stream. 

The  proceedings  began  with  the  Local  Stakes,  won  by 
Rob  Saunderson's  veteran,  Shep.  There  followed  the 
Open  Juveniles,  carried  off  by  Ned  Hoppin's  young  dog. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when,  at  length,  the  great 
event  of  the  meeting  was  reached. 


242  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

In  the  enclosure  behind  the  Dalesman's  Daughter  the 
clamour  of  the  crowd  increased  tenfold,  and  the  yells  of  the 
bookmakers  were  redoubled. 

"Walk  up,  gen'lemen,  walk  up!  the  ole  firm!  Rasper? 
Yessir — twenty  to  one  bar  two!  Twenty  to  one  bar  two! 
Bob?  What  price,  Bob?  Even  money,  sir — no,  not  a 
penny  longer,  couldn't  do  it!  Red  Wull?  'oo  says  Red 
Willi?" 

On  the  far  side  the  stream  is  clustered  about  the  starting 
flag  the  finest  array  of  sheep-dogs  ever  seen  together. 

"I've  never  seen  such  a  field,  and  I've  seen  fifty,"  is 
Parson  Leggy 's  verdict. 

There,  beside  the  tall  form  of  his  master,  stands  Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  the  observed  of  all.  His  silvery  brush 
fans  the  air,  and  he  holds  his  dark  head  high  as  he  scans 
his  challengers,  proudly  conscious  that  to-day  will  make 
or  mar  his  fame.  Below  him,  the  mean-looking,  smooth- 
coated  black  dog  is  the  unbeaten  Pip,  winner  of  the  re- 
nowned Cambrian  Stakes  at  Llangollen — as  many  think 
the  best  of  all  the  good  dogs  that  have  come  from  sheep- 
dotted  Wales.  Beside  him  that  handsome  sable  collie, 
with  the  tremendous  coat  and  slash  of  white  on  throat  and 
face,  is  the  famous  MacCallum  More,  fresh  from  his 
victory  at  the  Highland  meeting.  The  cobby,  brown  dog, 
seeming  of  many  breeds,  is  from  the  land  o'  the  Tykes — 
Merry,  on  whom  the  Yorkshiremen  are  laying  as  though 
they  loved  him.  And  Jess,  the  wiry  black-and-tan,  is  the 
favourite  of  the  men  of  the  Derwent  and  Dove.  Tupper's 
big  blue  Rasper  is  there;  Londesley's  Lassie;  and  many 
more — too  many  to  mention:  big  and  small,  grand  and 
mean,  smooth  and  rough — and  not  a  bad  dog  there. 

And  alone,  his  back  to  the  others,  stands  a  little  bowed, 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  243 

conspicuous  figure — Adam  M'Adam;  while  the  great  dog 
beside  him,  a  hideous  incarnation  of  scowling  defiance,  is 
Red  Wull,  the  Terror  o'  the  Border. 

The  Tailless  Tyke  had  already  run  up  his  fighting 
colours.  For  MacCallum  More,  going  up  to  examine  this 
forlorn  great  adversary,  had  conceived  for  him  a  violent 
antipathy,  and,  straightway,  had  spun  at  him  with  all  the 
fury  of  the  Highland  cateran,  who  attacks  first  and 
explains  afterward.  Red  Wull,  forthwith,  had  turned  on 
him  with  savage,  silent  gluttony;  bob-tailed  Rasper  was 
racing  up  to  join  in  the  attack;  and  in  another  second  the 
three  would  have  been  locked  inseparably — but  just  in  time 
M'Adam  intervened. 

One  of  the  judges  came  hurrying  up. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,"  he  cried  angrily,  "if  that  brute  of 
yours  gets  fighting  again,  hang  me  if  I  don 't]  disqualify 
him!  Only  last  year  at  the  Trials  he  killed  the  young 
Cossack  dog." 

A  dull  flash  of  passion  swept  across  M 'Adam's  face. 
"Come  here,  Wullie!"  he  called.  "Gin  yon  Hielant  tyke 
attacks  ye  agin,  ye 're  to  be  disqualified." 

He  was  unheeded.  The  battle  for  the  Cup  had  begun — 
little  Pip  leading  the  dance. 

On  the  opposite  slope  the  babel  had  subsided  now. 
Hucksters  left  their  wares,  and  bookmakers  their  stools,  to 
watch  the  struggle.  Every  eye  was  intent  on  the  moving 
figures  of  man  and  dog  and  three  sheep  over  the  stream. 

One  after  one  the  competitors  ran  their  course  and 
penned  their  sheep — there  was  no  single  failure.  And  all 
received  their  just  meed  of  applause,  save  only  Adam 
M 'Adam's  Red  Wull. 

Last  of  all,  when  Owd  Bob  trotted  out  to  uphold  his 


244  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

title,  there  went  up  such  a  shout  as  made  Maggie's  wan 
cheeks  to  blush  with  pleasure,  and  wee  Anne  to  scream 
right  lustily. 

His  was  an  incomparable  exhibition.  Sheep  should  be 
humoured  rather  than  hurried;  coaxed  rather  than  co- 
erced. And  that  sheep-dog  has  attained  the  summit  of 
his  art  who  subdues  his  own  personality  and  leads  his  sheep 
in  pretending  to  be  led.  Well  might  the  bosoms  of  the 
Dalesmen  swell  with  pride  as  they  watched  their  favourite 
at  his  work;  well  might  Tammas  pull  out  that  hackneyed 
phrase,  "The  brains  of  a  mon  and  the  way  of  a  woman"; 
well  might  the  crowd  bawl  their  enthusiasm,  and  Long 
Kirby  puff  his  cheeks  and  rattle  the  money  in  his  trouser 
pockets. 

But  of  this  part  it  is  enough  to  say  that  Pip,  Owd  Bob, 
and  Red  Wull  were  selected  to  fight  out  the  struggle  afresh. 

The  course  was  altered  and  stiffened.  On  the  far  side 
the  stream  it  remained  as  before;  up  the  slope;  round  a 
flag;  down  the  hill  again;  through  the  gap  in  the  wall; 
along  the  hillside;  down  through  the  two  flags;  turn;  and 
to  the  stream  again.  But  the  pen  was  removed  from 
its  former  position,  carried  over  the  bridge,  up  the  near 
slope,  and  the  hurdles  put  together  at  the  very  foot  of 
the  spectators. 

The  sheep  had  to  be  driven  over  the  plank-bridge,  and 
the  penning  done  beneath  the  very  nose  of  the  crowd. 
A  stiff  course,  if  ever  there  was  one;  and  the  time  allowed, 
ten  short  minutes. 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  spectators  hustled  and  elbowed  in  their  endeavours 
to  obtain  a  good  position.     And  well  they  might;  for 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  245 

about  to  begin  was  the  finest  exhibition  of  sheep-handling 
any  man  there  was  ever  to  behold. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Evan  Jones  and  little  Pip  led  off. 

Those  two,  who  had  won  on  many  a  hard-fought  field, 
worked  together  as  they  had  never  worked  before. 
Smooth  and  swift,  like  a  yacht  in  Southampton  Water; 
round  the  flag,  through  the  gap,  they  brought  their 
sheep.  Down  between  the  two  flags — accomplishing 
right  well  that  awkward  turn;  and  back  to  the  bridge. 

There  they  stopped:  the  sheep  would  not  face  that 
narrow  way.  Once,  twice,  and  again,  they  broke;  and 
each  time  the  gallant  little  Pip,  his  tongue  out  and  tail 
quivering,  brought  them  back  to  the  bridge-head. 

At  length  one  faced  it;  then  another,  and — it  was  too 
late.  Time  was  up.  The  judges  signalled;  and  the 
Welshman  called  off  his  dog  and  withdrew. 

Out  of  sight  of  mortal  eye,  in  a  dip  of  the  ground,  Evan 
Jones  sat  down  and  took  the  small  dark  head  between  his 
knees — and  you  may  be  sure  the  dog's  heart  was  heavy  as 
the  man's.  "We  did  our  pest,  Pip,"  he  cried  brokenly, 
"but  we're  peat — the  first  time  ever  we've  been!" 

No  time  to  dally. 

James  Moore  and  Owd  Bob  were  off  on  their  last  run. 

No  applause  this  time;  not  a  voice  was  raised;  anxious 
faces;  twitching  fingers;  the  whole  crowd  tense  as  a 
stretched  wire.  A  false  turn,  a  wilful  sheep,  a  can- 
tankerous judge,  and  the  gray  dog  would  be  beat.  And 
not  a  man  there  but  knew  it. 

Yet  over  the  stream  master  and  dog  went  about  their 
business  never  so  quiet,  never  so  collected;  for  all  the 


246  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

world  as  though  they  were  rounding  up  a  flock  on  the' 
Muir  Pike. 

The  old  dog  found  his  sheep  in  a  twinkling  and  a  wild, 
scared  trio  they  proved.  Rounding  the  first  flag,  one 
bright-eyed  wether  made  a  dash  for  the  open.  He  was 
quick;  but  the  gray  dog  was  quicker:  a  splendid  recover, 
and  a  sound  like  a  sob  from  the  watchers  on  the  hill. 

Down  the  slope  they  came  for  the  gap  in  the  wall.  A 
little  below  the  opening,  James  Moore  took  his  stand  to 
stop  and  turn  them;  while  a  distance  behind  his  sheep 
loitered  Owd  Bob,  seeming  to  follow  rather  than  drive, 
yet  watchful  of  every  movement  and  anticipating  it. 
On  he  came,  one  eye  on  his  master,  the  other  on  his  sheep; 
never  hurrying  them,  never  flurrying  them,  yet  bringing 
them  rapidly  along. 

No  word  was  spoken;  barely  a  gesture  made;  yet  they 
worked,  master  and  dog,  like  one  divided. 

Through  the  gap,  along  the  hill  parallel  to  the  spectators, 
playing  into  one  another's  hands  like  men  at  polo. 

A  wide  sweep  for  the  turn  at  the  flags,  and  the  sheep 
wheeled  as  though  at  the  word  of  command,  dropped 
through  them,  and  travelled  rapidly  for  the  bridge. 

"Steady!"  whispered  the  crowd. 

"Steady,  man!"  muttered  Parson  Leggy. 

"Hold  'em,  for  God's  sake!"  croaked  Kirby  huskily. 
"D n!  I  knew  it!     I  saw  it  coming!" 

The  pace  down  the  hill  had  grown  quicker — too  quick. 
Close  on  the  bridge  the  three  sheep  made  an  effort  to 
break.  A  dash — and  two  were  checked;  but  the  third 
went  away  like  the  wind,  and  after  him  Owd  Bob,  a  gray 
streak  against  the  green. 

Tammas  was  cursing  silently;  Kirby  was  white  to  the 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  247 

lips;  and  in  the  stillness  you  could  plainly  hear  the  Dales 
men 's  sobbing  breath,  as  it  fluttered  in  their  throats. 

"Gallop!  they  say  he's  old  and  slow!'*  muttered  the 
Parson.  "Dash!  Look  at  that!"  For  the  gray  dog, 
racing  like  the  nor'easter  over  the  sea,  had  already 
retrieved  the  fugitive. 

Man  and  dog  were  coaxing  the  three  a  step  at  a  time 
toward  the  bridge. 

One  ventured — the  others  followed. 

In  the  middle  the  leader  stopped  and  tried  to  turn — and 
time  was  flying,  flying,  and  the  penning  alone  must  take 
minutes.  Many  a  man's  hand  was  at  his  watch,  but  no 
one  could  take  his  eyes  off  the  group  below  him  to  look. 

"We're  beat!  I  've  won  bet,  Tammas!"  groaned  Sam'l. 
(The  two  had  a  long-standing  wager  on  the  matter.) 
"I  alius  knoo  hoo  'twould  be.     I  alius  told  yo'  th'  owd 

tyke "     Then  breaking  into  a  bellow,  his  honest  face 

crimson  with   enthusiasm:     "Come  on,   Master!     Good 
for  yo',  Owd  Un!     Yon's  the  style!" 

For  the  gray  dog  had  leapt  on  the  back  of  the  hindmost 
sheep;  it  had  surged  forward  against  the  next,  and  they 
were  over,  and  making  up  the  slope  amidst  a  thunder  of 
applause. 

At  the  pen  it  was  a  sight  to  see  shepherd  and  dog  work- 
ing together.  The  Master,  his  face  stern  and  a  little  whiter 
than  its  wont,  casting  forward  with  both  hands,  herding 
the  sheep  in;  the  gray  dog,  his  eyes  big  and  bright, 
dropping  to  hand;  crawling  and  creeping,  closer  and 
closer. 

"They're  in! — Nay — Ay — dang  me!  Stop  'er.  Good 
Owd  Un!  Ah-h-h,  they're  in!"  And  the  last  sheep 
reluctantly  passed  through — on  the  stroke  of  time. 


H&  THE  SHEPHERDS5  TROPHY 

A  roar  went  up  from  the  crowd;  Maggie's  white  fact 
turned  pink;  and  the  Dalesmen  mopped  their  wet  brows. 
The  mob  surged  forward,  but  the  stewards  held  them  back. 

"  Back,  please !   Don 't  encroach !   M  'Adam 's  to  come ! " 

From  the  far  bank  the  little  man  watched  the  scene. 
His  coat  and  cap  were  off,  and  his  hair  gleamed  white  in 
the  sun;  his  sleeves  were  rolled  up;  and  his  face  was 
twitching  but  set  as  he  stood — ready. 

The  hubbub  over  the  stream  at  length  subsided.  One 
of  the  judges  nodded  to  him. 

"Noo,  Wullie — noo  or  niver! — 'Scots  wha  hae'!" — and 
they  were  off. 

"Back,  gentlemen!  Back!  He's  off — he's  coming! 
M 'Adam's  coming!" 

They  might  well  shout  and  push ;  for  the  great  dog  was 
on  to  his  sheep  before  they  knew  it;  and  they  went  away 
with  a  rush,  with  him  right  on  their  backs.  Up  the  slope 
they  swept  and  round  the  first  flag,  already  galloping. 
Down  the  hill  for  the  gap,  and  M'Adam  was  flying  ahead 
to  turn  them.  But  they  passed  him  like  a  hurricane,  and 
Red  Wull  was  in  front  with  a  rush  and  turned  them  alone. 

"M'Adam  wins!  Five  to  four  M'Adam!  I  lay  agin 
Owd  Bob !"  rang  out  a  clear  voice  in  the  silence. 

Through  the  gap  they  rattled,  ears  back,  feet  twinkling 
like  the  wings  of  driven  grouse. 

"He's  lost  'em!  They'll  break!  They're  away!"  was 
the  cry. 

Sam'l  was  half  up  the  wheel  of  the  Kenmuir  wagon; 
every  man  was  on  his  toes;  ladies  were  standing  in  their 
carriages;  even  Jim  Mason's  face  flushed  with  momentary 
excitement. 

The  sheep  were  tearing  along  the  hillside,  all  together, 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  249 

like  a  white  scud.  After  them,  galloping  like  a  Waterloo 
winner,  raced  Red  Wull.  And  last  of  all,  leaping  over  the 
ground  like  a  demoniac,  making  not  for  the  two  flags,  but 
the  plank-bridge,  the  white-haired  figure  of  M 'Adam. 

"  He 's  beat !    The  Killer 's  beat !"  roared  a  strident  voice. 

"M 'Adam  wins!  Five  to  four  M'Adam!  I  lay  agin 
Owd  Bob !"  rang  out  the  clear  reply. 

Red  Wull  was  now  racing  parallel  to  the  fugitives  and 
above,  them..  All  four  were  travelling  at  a  terrific  rate; 
while  the  two  flags  were  barely  twenty  yards  in  front, 
below  'the  ^fine  of  flight  and  almost  parallel  to  it.  To 
effect  the  turn  a  change  of  direction  must  be  made  almost 
through  a  right  angle. 

" He  's  treat!  he's  beat!  M'Adam 's  beat!  Can't  make 
it  nohow!"  was  the  roar. 

From  over  the  stream  a  yell — 

"Turn  'em,  Wullie!" 

At  the  word  the  great  dog  swerved  down  on  the  flying 
three.  They  turned,  still  at  the  gallop,  like  a  troop  of 
cavalry,  and  dropped,  clean  and  neat,  between  the  flags; 
and  down  to  the  stream  they  rattled,  passing  M'Adam  on 
the  way  as  though  he  was  standing. 

"Weel  done,  Wullie!"  came  the  scream  from  the  far 
bank;  and  from  the  crowd  went  up  an  involuntary  burst 
of  applause. 

"Ma  word!" 

"Did  yo' see  that?" 

"By  gob!" 

It  was  a  turn,  indeed,  of  which  the  smartest  team  in  the 
galloping  horse-gunners  might  well  have  been  proud. 
A  shade  later,  and  they  must  have  overshot  the  mark;  a 
shade  sooner,  and  a  miss. 


250  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

"He's  not  been  two  minutes  so  far.  We're  beaten — 
don't  you  think  so,  Uncle  Leggy?"  asked  Muriel  Syl- 
vester, looking  up  piteously  into  the  parson's  face. 

"It's  not  what  I  think,  my  dear;  it's  what  the  judges 
think,"  the  parson  replied;  and  what  he  thought  their 
verdict  would  be  was  plainly  writ  on  his  face  for  all  to  read. 

Right  on  to  the  centre  of  the  bridge  the  leading  sheep 
galloped  and — stopped  abruptly. 

Up  above  in  the  crowd  there  was  utter  silence;  staring 
eyes;  rigid  fingers.  The  sweat  was  dripping  off  Long 
Kirby's  face;  and,  at  the  back,  a  green-coated  bookmaker 
slipped  his  notebook  in  his  pocket,  and  glanced  behind 
him.  James  Moore,  standing  in  front  of  them  all,  was 
the  calmest  there. 

Red  Wull  was  not  to  be  denied.  Like  his  forerunner  he 
leapt  on  the  back  of  the  hindmost  sheep.  But  the  red  dog 
was  heavy  where  the  gray  was  light.  The  sheep  staggered, 
slipped,  and  fell. 

Almost  before  it  had  touched  the  water,  M'Adam,  his 
face  afire  and  eyes  flaming,  was  in  the  stream.  In  a  second 
he  had  hold  of  the  struggling  creature,  and,  with  an  almost 
superhuman  effort,  had  half  thrown,  half  shoved  it  on  to 
the  bank. 

Again  a  tribute  of  admiration,  led  by  James  Moore. 

The  little  man  scrambled,  panting,  on  to  the  bank  and 
raced  after  sheep  and  dog.  His  face  was  white  beneath 
the  perspiration;  his  breath  came  in  quavering  gasps;  his 
trousers  were  wet  and  clinging  to  his  legs;  he  was 
trembling  in  every  limb,  and  yet  indomitable. 

They  were  up  to  the  pen,  and  the  last  wrestle  began. 
The  crowd,  silent  and  motionless,  craned  forward  to 
watch  the  uncanny,  white-haired  little  man  and  the  huge 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  251 

dog,  working  so  close  below  them.  M 'Adam's  face  was 
white;  his  eyes  staring,  unnaturally  bright;  his  bent  body 
projected  forward;  and  he  tapped  with  his  stick  on  the 
ground  like  a  blind  man,  coaxing  the  sheep  in.  And  the 
Tailless  Tyke,  his  tongue  out  and  flanks  heaving,  crept  and 
crawled  and  worked  up  to  the  opening,  patient  as  he  had 
never  been  before. 

They  were  in  at  last. 

There  was  a  lukewarm,  half-hearted  cheer;  then  silence. 

Exhausted  and  trembling,  the  little  man  leant  against 
the  pen,  one  hand  on  it;  while  Red  Wull,  his  flanks  still 
heaving,  gently  licked  the  other.  Quite  close  stood  James 
Moore  and  the  gray  dog;  above  was  the  black  wall  of 
people,  utterly  still;  below,  the  judges  comparing  notes.  In 
the  silence  you  could  almost  hear  the  panting  of  the  crowd. 

Then  one  of  the  judges  went  up  to  James  Moore  and 
shook  him  by  the  hand. 

The  gray  dog  had  won.  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir  had  won 
the  Shepherds'  Trophy  outright. 

A  second's  palpitating  silence;  a  woman's  hysterical 
laugh — and  a  deep-mouthed  bellow  rent  the  expectant 
air:  shouts,  screams,  hat-tossings,  back-clappings  blend- 
ing in  a  din  that  made  the  many-winding  waters  of  the 
Silver  Lea  quiver  and  quiver  again. 

Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir  had  won  the  Shepherds'  Trophy 
outright. 

Maggie's  face  flushed  a  scarlet  hue.  Wee  Anne  flung 
fat  arms  toward  her  triumphant  Bob,  and  screamed  with 
the  best.  Squire  and  parson,  each  red-cheeked,  were 
boisterously  shaking  hands.  Long  Kirby,  who  had  not 
prayed  for  thirty  years,  ejaculated  with  heartfelt  earnest- 
ness, "Thank  God!"    Sam'l  Todd  bellowed  in  Tammas's 


252  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

ear,  and  almost  slew  him  with  his  mighty  buffets.  Among 
the  Dalesmen  some  laughed  like  drunken  men;  some  cried 
like  children;  all  joined  in  that  roaring  song  of  victory. 

To  little  M'Adam,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  crowd, 
that  storm  of  cheering  came  as  the  first  announcement  of 
defeat. 

A  wintry  smile,  like  the  sun  over  a  March  sea,  crept 
across  his  face. 

"We  might  a  kent  it,  Wullie,"  he  muttered,  soft  and 
low.  The  tension  loosed,  the  battle  lost,  the  little  man 
almost  broke  down.  There  were  red  dabs  of  colour  in  his 
face;  his  eyes  were  big;  his  lips  pitifully  quivering;  he 
was  near  to  sobbing. 

An  old  man — utterly  alone — he  had  staked  his  all  on  a 
throw — and  lost. 

Lady  Eleanour  marked  the  forlorn  little  figure,  standing 
solitary  on  the  fringe  of  the  uproarious  mob.  She  noticed 
the  expression  on  his  face;  and  her  tender  heart  went  out 
to  the  lone  man  in  his  defeat. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Mr.  M'Adam,"  she  said  timidly,  "won't  you  come 
and  sit  down  in  the  tent  ?  You  look  so  tired !  I  can  find 
you  a  corner  where  no  one  shall  disturb  you." 

The  little  man  wrenched  roughly  away.  The  unexpect- 
ed kindness,  coming  at  that  moment,  was  almost  too 
much  for  him.     A  few  paces  off  he  turned  again. 

"It's  reel  kind  o'  yer  ladyship,"  he  said  huskily;  and 
tottered  away  to  be  alone  with  Red  Wull. 

Meanwhile  the  victors  stood  like  rocks  in  the  tideway. 
About  them  surged  a  continually  changing  throng, 
shaking  the  man's  hand,  patting  his  dog. 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY  253 

Maggie  had  carried  wee  Anne  to  tender  her  congratu- 
lations; Long  Kirby  had  come;  Tammas,  Saunderson, 
Hoppin,  Tupper,  Londesley — all  but  Jim  Mason;  and 
now  elbowing  through  the  press,  came  squire  and  par' 
son. 

"Well  done,  James!  well  done,  indeed!  Knew  you'd 
win!  Told  you  so — eh,  eh!"  Then  facetiously  to  Owo. 
Bob:  "Knew  you  would,  Robert,  old  man!  Ought  to — 
Robert  the  Dev — musn't  be  a  naughty  boy — eh,  eh!" 

"The  first  time  ever  the  Dale  Cup 's  been  won  outright!" 
said  the  parson;  "and  I  dare  say  it  never  will  again. 
And  I  think  Kenmuir's  the  very  fittest  place  for  its  final 
home,  and  a  Gray  Dog  of  Kenmuir  for  its  winner." 

"Oh,  by  the  by!"  burst  in  the  squire.  "I've  fixed  the 
Manor  dinner  for  to-day  fortnight,  James.  Tell  Saunder- 
son and  Tupper,  will  you?  Want  all  the  tenants  there." 
He  disappeared  into  the  crowd,  but  in  a  minute  had  fought 
his  way  back.  "I'd  forgotten  something!"  he  shouted. 
"Tell  your  Maggie  perhaps  you'll  have  news  for  her  after 
it — eh !  eh !" — and  he  was  gone  again. 

Last  of  all,  James  Moore  was  aware  of  a  white,  blotchy, 
grinning  face  at  his  elbow. 

"I  maun  congratulate  ye,  Mr.  Moore.  Ye've  beat  us — 
you  and  the  gentlemen — judges." 

" 'Twas  a  close  thing,  M'Adam,"  the  other  answered. 
"An*  yo'  made  a  gran'  fight.  In  ma  life  I  niver  saw  a 
finer  turn  than  yours  by  the  two  flags  yonder.  I  hope  yo' 
bear  no  malice." 

"Malice!  Me?  Is  it  likely?  Na,  na.  'Doontoivery 
man  as  he  does  onto  you — and  somethin'  over,'  that's  my 
motter.  I  owe  ye  mony  a  good  turn,  which  I'll  pay  ye 
yet.     Na  na;  there's  nae  good  fechtin'  agin  fate — and 


254  THE  SHEPHERDS'  TROPHY 

the  judges.     Weel,  I  wush  you  well  o'  yer  victory.     Aiblins 
'twill  be  oor  turn  next." 

Then  a  rush,  headed  by  Sam'l,  roughly  hustled  the  one 
away  and  bore  the  other  off  on  its  shoulders  in  boisterous 
triumph. 


In  giving  the  Cup  away,  Lady  Eleanour  made  a  prettier 
speech  than  ever.  Yet  all  the  while  she  was  haunted  by  a 
white,  miserable  face;  and  all  the  while  she  was  conscious 
of  two  black  moving  dots  in  the  Murk  Muir  Pass  opposite 
her — solitary,  desolate,  a  contrast  to  the  huzzaing  crowd 
around. 

That  is  how  the  champion  challenge  Dale  Cup,  the  world- 
known  Shepherds'  Trophy,  came  to  wander  no  more;  won 
outright  by  the  last  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir — Owd 
Bob. 

Why  he  was  the  last  of  the  Gray  Dogs  is  now  to  be  told. 


PART  VI 
THE  BLACK  KILLER 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


RED-HANDED 

THE  sun  was  hiding  behind  the  Pike.  Over  the 
lowlands  the  feathery  breath  of  night  hovered  still. 
And  the  hillside  was  shivering  in  the  dullness  of  dawn. 

Down  on  the  silvery  sward  beside  the  Stony  Bottom 
there  lay  the  ruffled  body  of  a  dead  sheep.  All  about  the 
victim  the  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  patchy  like  dis- 
hevelled velvet;  bracken  trampled  down;  stones  displaced 
as  though  by  straggling  feet;  and  the  whole  spotted  with 
the  all-pervading  red. 

A  score  yards  up  the  hill,  in  a  writhing  confusion  of  red 
and  gray,  two  dogs  at  death-grips.  While  yet  higher,  a 
pack  of  wild-eyed  hill-sheep  watched,  fascinated,  the 
bloody  drama. 

The  fight  raged.  Red  and  gray,  blood-spattered, 
murderous-eyed;  the  crimson  froth  dripping  from  their 
jaws;  now  rearing  high  with  arching  crests  and  wrestling 

257 


258  RED-HANDED 

paws;  now  rolling  over  in  tumbling,  tossing,  worrying 
disorder — the  two  fought  out  their  blood-feud. 

Above,  the  close-packed  flock  huddled  and  stamped, 
ever  edging  nearer  to  watch  the  issue.  Just  so  must  the 
women  of  Rome  have  craned  round  the  arenas  to  see  two 
men  striving  in  death-struggle. 

The  first  cold  flicker  of  dawn  stole  across  the  green. 
The  red  eye  of  the  morning  peered  aghast  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  Pike.  And  from  the  sleeping  dale  there  arose  the 
yodling  of  a  man  driving  his  cattle  home. 

Day  was  upon  them. 

James  Moore  was  waked  by  a  little  whimpering  cry 
beneath  his  window.  He  leapt  out  of  bed  and  rushed  to 
look;  for  well  he  knew  'twas  not  for  nothing  that  the  old 
dog  was  calling. 

"Lord  o'  mercy!  whativer's  come  to  yo',  Owd  Un?' 
he   cried   in    anguish.     And,  indeed,  his    favourite,  war- 
daubed    almost    past    recognition,    presented    a    pitiful 
spectacle. 

In  a  moment  the  Master  was  downstairs  and  out. 
examining  him. 

"Poor  old  lad,  yo'  have  caught  it  this  time!"  he  cried. 
There  was  a  ragged  tear  on  the  dog's  cheek;  a  deep  gash 
in  his  throat  from  which  the  blood  still  welled,  staining  the 
white  escutcheon  on  his  chest;  while  head  and  neck  were 
clotted  with  the  red. 

Hastily  the  Master  summoned  Maggie.  After  her, 
Andrew  came  hurrying  down.  And  a  little  later  a  tiny, 
night-clad,  naked-footed  figure  appeared  in  the  door,  wide- 
eyed,  and  then  fled,  screaming. 

They   doctored   the  old   warrior  on   the  table  in  the 


RED-HANDED  259 

kitchen.  Maggie  tenderly  washed  his  wounds  and  dressed 
them  with  gentle,  pitying  fingers;  and  he  stood  all  the  while 
grateful  yet  fidgeting,  looking  up  into  his  master's  face  as 
if  imploring  to  be  gone. 

"He  mun  a  had  a  rare  tussle  wi'  some  one — eh,  dad?" 
said  the  girl,  as  she  worked. 

"Ay;  and  wi'  whom?  'Twasn't  for  nowt  he  got 
fightin',  I  war'nt.     Nay;  he's  a  tale  to  tell,  has  Th'  Owd 

Un,    and Ah-h-h!     I    thowt    as    much.     Look    'eel" 

For  bathing  the  bloody  jaws,  he  had  come  upon  a  cluster 
of  tawny  red  hair,  hiding  in  the  corners  of  the  lips. 

The  secret  was  out.  Those  few  hairs  told  their  own 
accusing  tale.  To  but  one  creature  in  the  Daleland  could 
they  belong — "The  Tailless  Tyke." 

"He  mun  a  bin  trespassin'!"  cried  Andrew. 

"Ay,  and  up  to  some  o'  his  bloody  work,  I  '11  lay  my  life, " 
the  Master  answered.     "But  Th'  Owd  Un  shall  show  us." 

The  old  dog's  hurts  proved  less  severe  than  had  at 
first  seemed  possible.  His  good  gray  coat,  forest-thick 
about  his  throat,  had  never  served  him  in  such  good  stead. 
And  at  length,  the  wounds  washed  and  sewn  up,  he  jumped 
down  all  in  a  hurry  from  the  table  and  made  for  the  door. 

"Noo,  owd  lad,  yo'  may  show  us,"  said  the  Master, 
and,  with  Andrew,  hurried  after  him  down  the  hill,  along 
the  stream,  and  over  Langholm  How.  And  as  they 
neared  the  Stony  Bottom,  the  sheep,  herding  in  groups, 
raised  frightened  heads  to  stare. 

Of  a  sudden  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies  rose,  buzzing,  up 
before  them;  and  there  in  a  dimple  of  the  ground  lay  a 
murdered  sheep.  Deserted  by  its  comrades,  the  glazed 
eyes  staring  helplessly  upward,  the  throat  horribly  worried, 
it  slept  its  last  sleep. 


26o  RED-HANDED 

The  matter  was  plain  to  see.  At  last  the  Black  Killer 
had  visited  Kenmuir. 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  said  the  Master,  standing  over 
the  mangled  body.  "Well,  it's  the  worst  night's  work 
ever  the  Killer  done.  I  reck'n  Th'  Owd  Un  come  on  him 
while  he  was  at  it;  and  then  they  fought.  And,  ma  word! 
it  mun  ha'  ben  a  fight  too,"  For  all  around  were  traces 
of  that  terrible  struggle:  the  earth  torn  up  and  tossed, 
bracken  uprooted,  and  throughout  little  dabs  of  wool  and 
tufts  of  tawny  hair,  mingling  with  dark-stained  iron-gray 
wisps. 

James  Moore  walked  slowly  over  the  battlefield,  stoop* 
ing  down  as  though  he  were  gleaning.  And  gleaning  he 
'was. 

A  long  time  he  bent  so,,  and  at  length  raised  him« 
self. 

"The  Killer  has  killed  his  last,"  he  muttered;  "Red 
Wull  has  run  his  course."  Then,  turning  to  Andrew: 
"Run  yo'home,  lad,  and  fetch  the  men  to  carry  yon  away," 
pointing  to  the  carcass.  "And  Bob,  lad,  yo've  done  your 
work  for  to-day,  and  right  well  too;  go  yo'  home  wi'  him. 
I'm  off  to  see  to  this!" 

He  turned  and  crossed  the  Stony  Bottom.  His  face  was 
set  like  a  rock.  At  length  the  proof  was  in  his  hand. 
Once  and  for  all  the  hill-country  should  be  rid  of  its 
scourge. 

As  he  stalked  up  the  hill,  a  dark  head  appeared  at  his 
knee.  Two  big  gray  eyes,  half  doubting,  half  penitent, 
wholly  wistful,  looked  up  at  him,  and  a  silvery  brush 
signalled  a  mute  request. 

"Eh,  Owd  Un,  but  yo'  should  ha'  gone  wi'  Andrew," 
the  Master  said.     "Hooiver,  as  yo*  are  here,  come  along/ 


RED-HANDED  261 

And  he  strode  away  up  the  hill,  gaunt  and  menacing,  with 
the  gray  dog  at  his  heels. 

As  they  approached  the  house,  M'Adam  was  standing 
in  the  door,  sucking  his  eternal  twig.  James  Moore  eyed 
him  closely  as  he  came,  but  the  sour  face  framed  in  the 
door  betrayed  nothing.  Sarcasm,  surprise,  challenge, 
were  all  writ  there,  plain  to  read ;  but  no  guilty  conscious- 
ness of  the  other's  errand,  no  storm  of  passion  to  hide  a 
failing  heart.     If  it  was  acting  it  was  splendidly  done. 

As  man  and  dog  passed  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge, 
the  expression  of  the  little  man's  face  changed  again.  He 
started  forward. 

"James  Moore,  as  I  live!"  he  cried,  and  advanced  with 
with  both  hands  extended,  as  though  welcoming  a  long-lost 
brother.  '"Deed  and  it's  a  weary  while  sin'  ye've 
honoured  ma  puir  hoose. "  And,  in  fact,  it  was  nigh  twenty 
years.  "I  tak'  it  gey  kind  in  ye  to  look  in  on  a  lonely  auld 
man.  Come  ben  and  let's  ha'  a  crack.  James  Moore 
kens  weel  hoo  welcome  he  aye  is  in  ma  bit  biggin'." 

The  Master  ignored  the  greeting. 

"One  o'  ma  sheep  been  killed  back  o'  t'  Dyke,"  he 
announced  shortly,  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"The  Killer?" 

"The  Killer." 

The  cordiality  beaming  in  every  wrinkle  of  the  little 
man's  face  was  absorbed  in  a  wondering  interest:  and 
that  again  gave  place  to  sorrowful  sympathy. 

"Dear,  dear!  it's  come  to  that,  has  it — at  last?"  he 
said  gently,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  gray  dog  and 
dwelt  mournfully  upon  him.  "Man,  I'm  sorry — I  canna 
tell  ye  I  'm  surprised.  Masel',  I  kent  it  all  alang.  But  gin 
Adam  M  'Adam  had  tell 't,  ye'd  no  ha '  believed  him.    Weel, 


262  RED-HANDED 

weel,  he's  lived  his  life,  gin  ony  dog  iver  did;  and  noo  he 
maun  gang  where  he 's  sent  a  many  before  him.  Puir  mon ! 
puir  tyke!"  He  heaved  a  sigh,  profoundly  melancholy, 
tenderly  sympathetic.  Then,  brightening  up  a  little: 
"Ye '11  ha'  come  for  the  gun?" 

James  Moore  listened  to  his  harangue  at  first  puzzled. 
Then  he  caught  the  other's  meaning,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"Ye  fool,  M'Adam!  did  ye  hear  iver  tell  o'  a  sheep-dog 
worryin'  his  master's  sheep?" 

The  little  man  was  smiling  and  suave  again  now, 
rubbing  his  hands  softly  together. 

"Ye 're  right,  I  never  did.  But  your  dog  is  not  as 
ither  dogs — 'There's  none  like  him — none,'  I've  heard  ye 
say  so  yersel,  mony  a  time.  An'  I'm  wi'  ye.  There's 
none  like  him — for  devilment."  His  voice  began  to 
quiver  and  his  face  to  blaze.  "It's  his  cursed  cunning 
that's  deceived  ivery  one  but  me — whelp  o'  Satan  that  he 
is!"  He  shouldered  up  to  his  tall  adversary.  "If  not 
him,  wha  else  had  done  it?"  he  asked,  looking  up  into 
the  other's  face  as  if  daring  him  to  speak. 

The  Master's  shaggy  eyebrows  lowered.  He  towered 
above  the  other  like  the  Muir  Pike  above  its  surrounding 
hills. 

"Wha,  ye  ask?"  he  replied  coldly,  "and  I  answer  you. 
Your  Red  Wull,  M'Adam,  your  Red  Wull.  It's  your 
Wull's  the  Black  Killer!  It's  your  Wull's  bin  the  plague 
o'  the  land  these  months  past!  It's  your  Wull's  killed  ma 
sheep  back  o'  yon!" 

At  that  ail  the  little  man's  affected  good-humour  fled. 

"Ye  lee,  mon!  ye  lee!"  he  cried  in  a  dreadful  scream, 
dancing  up  to  his  antagonist.  "I  knoo  hoo  'twad  be. 
I  said  so.     I  see  what  ye 're  at.     Ye've  found  at  last — 


RED-HANDED  263 

blind  that  ye've  been!— that  it's  yer  ain  helFs  tyke  that's 
the  Killer;  and  noo  ye  think  by  yer  leein'  impitations  to 
throw  the  blame  on  ma  Wullie.  Ye  rob  me  o'  ma  Cup, 
ye  rob  me  o'  ma  son,  ye  wrang  me  in  ilka  thing;  there's 
but  ae  thing  left  me — Wullie.  And  noo  ye 're  set  on  takin ' 
him  awa '.     But  ye  shall  not — I  '11  kill  ye  first !" 

He  was  all  a-shake,  bobbing  up  and  down  like  a  stopper 
in  a  soda-water  bottle,  and  almost  sobbing. 

"Ha'  ye  no  wranged  me  enough  wi'  oot  that?  Ye 
lang-leggit  liar,  wi'  yer  skulkin  murderin'  tyke!"  he  cried. 
"Ye  say  it's  Wullie.  Where's  yer  proof?" — and  he 
snapped  his  ringers  in  the  other's  face. 

The  Master  was  now  as  calm  as  his  foe  was  passionate. 
"Where?"  he  replied  sternly;  "why,  there!"  holding  out 
his  right  hand.  "Yon 's  proof  enough  to  hang  a  hunner'd. " 
For  lying  in  his  broad  palm  was  a  little  bundle  of  that 
damning  red  hair. 

"Where?" 

"There!" 

"Let's  see  it!"    The  little  man  bent  to  look  closer. 

"There's  for  yer  proof!"  he  cried,  and  spat  deliberately 
down  into  the  other's  naked  palm.  Then  he  stood  back, 
facing  his  enemy  in  a  manner  to  have  done  credit  to  a 
nobler  deed. 

James  Moore  strode  forward.  It  looked  as  if  he  was 
about  to  make  an  end  of  his  miserable  adversary,  so 
strongly  was  he  moved.  His  chest  heaved,  and  the  blue 
eyes  blazed.  But  just  as  one  had  thought  to  see  him  take 
his  foe  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  crush  him,  who  should 
come  stalking  round  the  corner  of  the  house  but  the  Tail- 
less Tyke. 

A   droll   spectacle   he   made,   laughable   even   at   that 


264  RED-HANDED 

moment.  He  limped  sorely,  his  head  and  neck  were 
swathed  in  bandages,  and  beneath  their  ragged  fringe  the 
little  eyes  gleamed  out  fiery  and  bloodshot. 

Round  the  corner  he  came,  unaware  of  strangers; 
then  straightway  recognizing  his  visitors,  halted  abruptly. 
His  hackles  ran  up,  each  individual  hair  stood  on  end  till 
his  whole  body  resembled  a  new-shorn  wheat-field;  and 
a  snarl,  like  a  rusty  brake  shoved  hard  down,  escaped  from 
between  his  teeth.  Then  he  trotted  heavily  forward,  his 
head  sinking  low  and  lower  as  he  came. 

And  Owd  Bob,  eager  to  take  up  the  gage  of  battle, 
advanced,  glad  and  gallant,  to  meet  him.  Daintily  he 
picked  his  way  across  the  yard,  head  and  tail  erect, 
perfectly  self-contained.  Only  the  long  gray  hair  about 
his  neck  stood  up  like  the  ruff  of  a  lady  of  the  court  of 
Queen  Elizabeth. 

But  the  war-worn  warriors  were  not  to  be  allowed  their 
will. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  wad  ye!"  cried  the  little  man. 

"Bob,  lad,  coom  in!"  called  the  other.  Then  he  turned 
and  looked  down  at  the  man  beside  him,  contempt 
flaunting  in  every  feature. 

"Well?"  he  said  shortly. 

M'Adam*s  hands  were  opening  and  shutting;  his  face 
was  quite  white  beneath  the  tan;  but  he  spoke  calmly. 

"I'll  tell  ye  the  whole  story,  and  it's  the  truth,"  he 
said  slowly.  "I  was  up  there  the  morn" — pointing  to 
the  window  above — "and  I  see  Wullie  crouchin'  down 
alangside  the  Stony  Bottom.  (Ye  ken  he  has  the  run  o' 
ma  land  o'  neets,  the  same  as  your  dog.)  In  a  minnit  I 
see  anither  dog  squatterin'  alang  on  your  side  the  Bottom. 
He  creeps  up  to  the  sheep  on  th'  hillside,  chases  'em,  and 


RED-HANDED  265 

doons  one.  The  sun  was  risen  by  then,  and  I  see  the  dog 
clear  as  I  see  you  noo.  It  was  that  dog  there — I  swear  it!" 
His  voice  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  he  pointed  an  accusing 
finger  at  Owd  Bob. 

"Noo,  Wullie!  thinks  I.  And  afore  ye  could  clap  yer 
hands,  Wullie  was  over  the  Bottom  and  on  to  him  as  he 
gorged — the  bloody-minded  murderer!  They  fought  and 
fought — I  could  hear  the  roarin'  a't  where  I  stood.  I 
watched  till  I  could  watch  nae  langer,  and,  all  in  a  sweat,  I 
rin  doon  the  stairs  and  oot.  When  I  got  there,  there  was 
yer  tyke  makin '  fu '  split  for  Kenmuir,  and  Wullie  comin ' 
up  the  hill  to  me.  It 's  God 's  truth,  I  'm  tellin '  ye.  Tak' 
him  hame,  James  Moore,  and  let  his  dinner  be  an  ounce  o* 
lead.     'Twill  be  the  best  day's  work  iver  ye  done." 

The  little  man  must  be  lying — lying  palpably.  Yet 
he  spoke  with  an  earnestness,  a  seeming  belief  in  his  own 
story,  that  might  have  convinced  one  who  knew  him  les? 
well.  But  the  Master  only  looked  down  on  him  with  a 
great  scorn. 

"It's  Monday  to-day,"  he  said  coldly.  "I  gie  yo'  till 
Saturday.  If  yo've  not  done  your  duty  by  then — and 
well  you  know  what  'tis — I  shall  come  do  it  for  ye.  Ony 
gate,  I  shall  come  and  see.  I'll  remind  ye  agin  o'  Thurs- 
day— yo'll  be  at  the  Manor  dinner,  I  suppose.  Noo  I've 
warned  yo,'  and  you  know  best  whether  I  'm  in  earnest  or 
no.     Boy,  lad!"  " 

He  turned  away,  but  turned  again. 
"I'm  sorry  for  ye,  but  I've  ma  duty  to  do — so've  you. 
Till  Saturday  I  shall  breathe  no  word  to  ony  soul  o'  this 
business,  so  that  if  you  see  good  to  put  him  oot  o'  the  way 
wi'oot  bother,  no  one  need  iver  know  as  hoo  Adam  M' 
Adam's  Red  Wull  was  the  Black  Killer.'" 


266  RED-HANDED 

He  turned  away  for  the  second  time.  But  the  little 
man  sprang  after  him,  and  clutched  him  by  the  arm. 

"Look  ye  here,  James  Moore!"  he  cried  in  thick,  shaky 
horrible  voice.  "Ye 're  big,  I'm  sma';  ye 're  Strang,  I'm 
weak;  ye've  ivery  one  to  your  back,  I've  niver  a  one;  you 
tell  your  story,  and  they'll  believe  ye — for  you  gae  to 
church;  I'll  tell  mine,  and  they'll  think  I  lie — for  I  dinna. 
But  a  word  in  your  ear!  If  iver  agin  I  catch  ye  on  ma 
land,  by — !" — he  swore  a  great  oath — "I'll  no  spare  ye. 
You  ken  best  if  I'm  in  earnest  or  no."  And  his  face  was 
dreadful  to  see  in  its  hideous  determinedness. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

FOR  THE   DEFENCE 

IHAT  night  a  vague  story  was  whispered  in  the 
Sylvester  Arms.  But  Tammas,  on  being  inter- 
rogated, pursed  his  lips  and  said:  "Nay,  I'm  sworn  to 
say  nowt."  Which  was  the  old  man's  way  of  putting 
that  he  knew  nowt. 


On  Thursday  morning,  James  Moore  and  Andrew  came 
down  arrayed  in  all  their  best.  It  was  the  day  of  the 
squire's  annual  dinner  to  his  tenants. 

The  two,  however,  were  not  allowed  to  start  upon  their 
way  until  they  had  undergone  a  critical  inspection  by 
Maggie;  for  the  girl  liked  her  mankind  to  do  honour  to 
Kenmuir  on  these  occasions.  So  she  brushed  up  Andrew, 
tied  his  scarf,  saw  his  boots  and  hands  were  clean,  and 
titivated  him  generally  till  she  had  converted  the  ungainly 
hobbledehoy  into  a  thoroughly  "likely  young  mon." 

267 


268  FOR  THE  DEFENCE 

And  all  the  while  she  was  thinking  of  that  other  boy 
for  whom  on  such  gala  days  she  had  been  wont  to  per- 
form like  offices.  And  her  father,  marking  the  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  mindful  of  the  squire's  mysterious  hint,  said 
gently : 

"Cheer  up,  lass.  Happen  I'll  ha'  news1  for  you  the 
night!" 

The  girl  nodded,  and  smiled  wanly. 

"Happen  so,  dad,"  she  said.  But  in  her  heart  she 
doubted. 

Nevertheless  it  was  with  a  cheerful  countenance  that,  a 
little  later,  she  stood  in  the  door  with  wee  Anne  and  Owd 
Bob  and  waved  the  travellers  Godspeed;  while  the  golden- 
haired  lassie,  fiercely  gripping  the  old  dog's  tail  with  one 
hand  and  her  sister  with  the  other,  screamed  them  a 
wordless  farewell. 


The  sun  had  reached  its  highest  when  the  two  wayfarers 
passed  through  the  gray  portals  of  the  Manor. 

In  the  stately  entrance  hall,  imposing  with  all  the 
evidences  of  a  long  and  honourable  line,  were  gathered  now 
the  many  tenants  throughout  the  wide  March  Mere 
Estate.  Weather-beaten,  rent-paying  sons  of  the  soil; 
most  of  them  native-born,  many  of  them  like  James 
Moore,  whose  fathers  had  for  generations  owned  and 
farmed  the  land  they  now  leased  at  the  hands  of  the 
Sylvesters — there  in  the  old  hall  they  were  assembled,  a 
mighty  host.  And  apart  from  the  others,  standing  as 
though  in  irony  beneath  the  frown  of  one  of  those  steel-clad 
warriors  who  held  the  door,  was  little  M'Adam,  puny 
always,  paltry  now,  mocking  his  manhood. 


FOR  THE  DEFENCE  269 

The  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  opened,  and  the 
squire  entered,  beaming  on  everyone. 

"Here  you  are — eh,  eh!  How  are  you  all?  Glad  to  see 
ye!  Good-day,  James!  Good-day,  Saunderson!  Good- 
day  to  you  all!  Bringin'  a  friend  with  me — eh,  eh!"  and 
he  stood  aside  to  let  by  his  agent,  Parson  Leggy,  and  last 
of  all,  shy  and  blushing,  a  fair-haired  young  giant. 

"If  it  bain't  David!"  was  the  cry.  "Eh,  lad,  we's  fain 
to  see  yo'!  And  yo'm  lookin'  stout,  surely!"  And  they 
thronged  about  the  boy,  shaking  him  by  the  hand,  and 
asking  him  his  story. 

'Twas  but  a  simple  tale.  After  his  flight  on  the 
eventful  night  he  had  gone  south,  drovering.  He  had 
written  to  Maggie,  and  been  surprised  and  hurt  to  receive 
no  reply.  In  vain  he  had  waited,  and  too  proud  to  write 
again,  had  remained  ignorant  of  his  father's  recovery, 
neither  caring  nor  daring  to  return.  Then  by  mere 
chance,  he  had  met  the  squire  at  the  York  cattle-show; 
and  that  kind  man,  who  knew  his  story,  had  eased  his 
fears  and  obtained  from  him  a  promise  to  return  as  soon  as 
the  term  of  his  engagement  had  expired.  And  there  he 
was. 

The  Dalesmen  gathered  round  the  boy,  listening  to  his 
tale,  and  in  return  telling  him  the  home  news,  and  chaffing 
him  about  Maggie. 

Of  all  the  people  present,  only  one  seemed  unmoved,  and 
that  was  M'Adam.  When  first  David  had  entered  he 
had  started  forward,  a  flush  of  colour  warming  his  thin 
cheeks;  but  no  one  had  noticed  his  emotion;  and  now, 
back  again  beneath  his  armour,  he  watched  the  scene,  a 
sour  smile  playing  about  his  lips. 

"I  think  the  lad  might  ha'  the  grace  to  come  and 


270  FOR  THE  DEFENCE 

say  he's  sorry  for  'temptin'  to  murder  me.  Hooiver" — 
with  a  characteristic  shrug — "I  suppose  I'm  onraison- 
able." 

Then  the  gong  rang  out  its  summons,  and  the  squire  led 
the  way  into  the  great  dining-hall.  At  the  one  end  of  the 
long  table,  heavy  with  all  the  solid  delicacies  of  such  a 
feast,  he  took  his  seat  with  the  Master  of  Kenmuir  upon 
his  right.  At  the  other  end  was  Parson  Leggy.  While 
down  the  sides  the  stalwart  Dalesmen  were  arrayed,  with 
M  'Adam  a  little  lost  figure  in  the  centre. 

At  first  they  talked  but  little,  awed  like  children: 
knives  plied,  glasses  tinkled,  the  carvers  had  all  their  work, 
only  the  tongues  were  at  rest.  But  the  squire's  ringing 
laugh  and  the  parson's  cheery  tones  soon  put  them  at 
their  ease;  and  a  babel  of  voices  rose  and  waxed. 

Of  them  all,  only  M  'Adam  sat  silent.  He  talked  to  no 
man,  and  you  may  be  sure  no  one  talked  to  him.  His 
hand  crept  oftener  to  his  glass  than  plate,  till  the  sallow 
face  began  to  flush,  and  the  dim  eyes  to  grow  unnaturally 
bright. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  meal  there  was  loud  tapping  on 
the  table,  calls  for  silence,  and  men  pushed  back  their 
chairs.  The  squire  was  on  his  feet  to  make  his  annual 
speech. 

He  started  by  telling  them  how  glad  he  was  to  see 
them  there.  He  made  an  allusion  to  Owd  Bob  and  the 
Shepherds'  Trophy  which  was  heartily  applauded.  He 
touched  on  the  Black  Killer,  and  said  he  had  a  remedy  to 
propose:  that  Th'  Owd  Un  should  be  set  upon  the  crim- 
inal's track — a  suggestion  which  was  received  with 
enthusiasm,  while  M 'Adam's  cackling  laugh  could  be 
heard  high  above  the  rest, 


FOR  THE  DEFENCE  271 

From  that  he  dwelt  upon  the  existing  condition  of 
agriculture,  the  depression  in  which  he  attributed  to  the 
late  Radical  Government.  He  said  that  now  with  the 
Conservatives  in  office,  and  a  ministry  composed  of 
"honourable  men  and  gentlemen"  he  felt  convinced  that 
things  would  brighten.  The  Radicals'  one  ambition  was 
to  set  class  against  class,  landlord  against  tenant.  Well, 
during  the  last  five  hundred  years,  the  Sylvesters  had 
rarely  been — he  was  sorry  to  have  to  confess  it — good  men 
[laughter  and  dissent];  but  he  never  yet  heard  of  the 
Sylvester — though  he  shouldn't  say  it — who  was  a  bad 
landlord  [loud  applause]. 

This  was  a  free  country,  and  any  tenant  of  his  who  was 
not  content  [a  voice,  "'Oo  says  we  bain't?"] — "thank 
you,  thank  you!" — well,  there  was  room  for  him  outside. 
[Cheers.]  He  thanked  God  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
that  during  the  forty  years  he  had  been  responsible  for  the 
March  Mere  Estate,  there  had  never  been  any  friction 
between  him  and  his  people  [cheers],  and  he  didn't  think 
there  ever  would  be.     [Loud  cheers.] 

"Thank  you,  thank  you!"  And  his  motto  was  "Shun 
a  Radical  as  you  do  the  devil!" — and  he  was  very  glad  to 
see  them  all  there — very  glad;  and  he  wished  to  give  them 
a  toast,  "The  Queen!  God  bless  her!"  and  — wait  a 
minute! — with  her  Majesty's  name  to  couple — he  was  sure 
that  gracious  lady  would  wish  it — that  of  "Owd  Bob  o' 
Kenmuir!"  Then  he  sat  down  abruptly  amid  thundering 
applause. 

The  toasts  duly  honoured,  James  Moore,  by  prescriptive 
right  as  Master  of  Kenmuir,  rose  to  answer. 

He  began  by  saying  that  he  spoke  "as  representing  all 
the  tenants," — but  he  was  interrupted. 


272  FOR  THE  DEFENCE 

"Na,"  came  a  shrill  voice  from  half-way  down  the  table. 
"Ye '11  except  me,  James  Moore.  I'd  as  lief  be  re- 
presented by  Judas!" 

There  were  cries  of  "Hold  ye  gab,  little  mon!"  and  the 
squire's  voice,  "That'll  do,  Mr.  M'Adam!" 

The  little  man  restrained  his  tongue,  but  his  eyes 
gleamed  like  a  ferret's;  and  the  Master  continued  his 
speech. 

He  spoke  briefly  and  to  the  point,  in  short  phrases. 
And  all  the  while  M'Adam  kept  up  a  low-voiced,  running 
commentary.  At  length  he  could  control  himself  no 
longer.  Half  rising  from  his  chair,  he  leant  forward  with 
hot  face  and  burning  eyes,  and  cried:  "Sit  doon,  James 
Moore!  Hoo  daur  ye  stan'  there  like  an  honest  man,  ye 
whitewashed  sepulchre?  Sit  doon,  I  say,  or" — threaten- 
ingly— "wad  ye  hae  me  come  to  ye?" 

At  that  the  Dalesmen  laughed  uproariously,  and  even 
the  Master's  grim  face  relaxed.  But  the  squire's  voice 
rang  out  sharp  and  stern. 

"Keep  silence  and  sit  down,  Mr.  M'Adam!  D'you 
hear  me,  sir?  If  I  have  to  speak  to  you  again  it  will  be  to 
order  you  to  leave  the  room." 

The  little  man  obeyed,  sullen  and  vengeful,  like  a  beaten 
cat. 

The  Master  concluded  his  speech  by  calling  on  all  pres- 
ent to  give  three  cheers  for  the  squire,  her  ladyship,  and 
the  young  ladies. 

The  call  was  responded  to  enthusiastically,  every  man 
standing.  Just  as  the  noise  was  at  its  zenith,  Lady 
Eleanour  herself,  with  her  two  fair  daughters,  glided  into 
the  gallery  at  the  end  of  the  hall;  whereat  the  cheering 
became  deafening. 


FOR  THE  DEFENCE  273 

Slowly  the  clamour  subsided.  One  by  one  the  tenants 
sat  down.  At  length  there  was  left  standing  only  one 
solitary  figure — M'Adam. 

His  face  was  set,  and  he  gripped  the  chair  in  front  of 
him  with  thin,  nervous  hands. 

"Mr.  Sylvester,"  he  began  in  low  yet  clear  voice, 
"ye  said  this  is  a  free  country  and  we're  a'  free  men.  And 
that  bein'  so,  I'll  tak'  the  liberty,  wi  'yer  permission,  to 
say  a  word.  It's  maybe  the  last  time  I'll  be  wi'  ye,  so  I 
hope  ye '11  listen  to  me." 

The  Dalesmen  looked  surprised,  and  the  squire  uneasy 
Nevertheless  he  nodded  assent. 

The  little  man  straightened  himself.  His  face  was 
tense  as  though  strung  up  to  a  high  resolve.  All  the 
passion  had  fled  from  it,  all  the  bitterness  was  gone;  and 
left  behind  was  a  strange,  ennobling  earnestness.  Stand- 
ing there  in  the  silence  of  that  great  hall,  with  every  eye 
upon  him,  he  looked  like  some  prisoner  at  the  bar  about  to 
plead  for  his  life. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "I've  bin  amang  ye  noo  a 
score  years,  and  I  can  truly  say  there's  not  a  man  in  this 
room  I  can  ca'  'Friend."  He  looked  along  the  ranks  of 
upturned  faces.  "Ay,  David,  I  see  ye,  and  you,  Mr. 
Hornbut,  and  you,  Mr.  Sylvester — ilka  one  o'  you,  and 
not  one  as'd  back  me  like  a  comrade  gin  a  trouble  came 
upon  me."  There  was  no  rebuke  in  the  grave  little  voice 
— it  merely  stated  a  hard  fact. 

"There's  I  doot  no  one  amang  ye  but  has  some  one — 
friend  or  blood — wham  he  can  turn  to  when  things  are 
sair  wi'  him.     I  Ve  no  one. 

"I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care' — 


274  F0R  THE  DEFENCE 

alane  wi'  Wullie,  who  stands  to  me,  blaw  or  snaw,  rain  or 
shine.  And  whiles  I'm  feared  he'll  be  took  from  me." 
He  spoke  this  last  half  to  himself,  a  grieved,  puzzled 
expression  on  his  face,  as  though  lately  he  had  dreamed 
some  ill  dream. 

"Forbye,  Wullie,  I've  no  friend  on  God's  earth.  And, 
mind  ye,  a  bad  man  aften  mak's  a  good  friend — but  ye've 
never  given  me  the  chance.  It's  a  sair  thing  that, 
gentlemen,  to  ha'  to  fight  the  battle  o'  life  alane:  no  one 
to  pat  ye  on  th'  back,  no  one  to  say  'Weel  done.'  It 
hardly  gies  a  man  a  chance.  For  gin  he  does  try  and  yet 
fails,  men  never  mind  the  tryin',  they  only  mark  the  failin'. 

"I  dinna  blame  ye.  There's  somethin'  bred  in  me,  it 
seems,  as  sets  ivery  one  agin  me.  It's  the  same  wi' 
Wullie  and  the  tykes — they're  doon  on  him  same  as  men 
are  on  me.  I  suppose  we  was  made  so.  Sin'  I  was  a  lad 
it's  aye  bin  the  same.  From  school  days  I've  had  ivery 
one  agin  me. 

"In  ma  life  I've  had  three  friends.  Ma  mither — and 
she  went;  then  ma  wife" — he  gave  a  great  swallow — 
"and  she's  awa';  and  I  may  say  they're  the  only  two 
human  bein's  as  ha'  lived  on  God's  earth  in  ma  time  that 
iver  tied  to  bear  wi'  me; — and  Wullie.  A  man's  mither — 
a  man's  wife — a  man's  dog!  it's  aften  a'  he  has  in  this 
warld;  and  the  more  he  prizes  them  the  more  like  they  are 
to  be  took  from  him."  The  little  earnest  voice  shook,  and 
the  dim  eyes  puckered  and  filled. 

"Sin  I've  bin  amang  ye — twenty-odd  years — can  any 
man  here  mind  speakin'  any  word  that  wasna  ill  to  me?" 
He  paused;  there  was  no  reply. 

"I'll  tell  ye.  All  the  time  I've  lived  here  I've  had  one 
kindly  word  spoke  to  me,  and  that  a  fortnight  gone,  and 


FOR  THE  DEFENCE  275 

not  by  a  man  then — by  her  ladyship.  God  bless  her!" 
He  glanced  up  into  the  gallery.  There  was  no  one  visible 
there;  but  a  curtain  at  one  end  shook  as  though  it  were 
sobbing. 

"Weel,  I'm  thinkin'  we'll  be  gaein'  in  a  wee  while  noo, 
Wullie  and  me,  alane  and  thegither,  as  we've  aye  done. 
And  it's  time  we  went.  Ye've  had  enough  o'  us,  and  it's 
no  for  me  to  blame  ye.  And  when  I'm  gone  what '11  ye 
say  o'  me?  'He  was  a  drunkard.'  I  am.  'He  was  a 
sinner.'  I  am.  'He  was  ilka  thing  he  shouldna  be.' 
I  am.  'We're  glad  he's  gone. '  That's  what  ye '11  say  o' 
me.     And  it's  but  ma  deserts." 

The  gentle,  condemning  voice  ceased,  and  began  again. 

"That's  what  I  am.  Gin  things  had  been  differ',  aiblins 
I'd  ha'  bin  differ'.  D'ye  ken  Robbie  Burns?  That's  a 
man  I've  read,  and  read,  and  read.  D'ye  ken  why  I 
love  him  as  some  o'  you  do  yer  Bibles ?  Because  there's  a 
humanity  about  him.  A  weak  man  hisseP,  aye  slippin', 
slippin',  slippin',  and  tryin'  to  haud  up;  sorrowin'  ae 
minute,  sinnin'  the  next;  doin'  ill  deeds  and  wishin'  'em 
undone — just  a  plain  human  man,  a  sinner.  And  that's 
why  I'm  thinkin'  he's  tender  for  us  as  is  like  him.  He 
understood.  It's  what  he  wrote — after  ain  o'  his  tumbles, 
I'm  thinkin' — that  I  was  goin'  to  tell  ye: 

'Then  gently  scan  yer  brother  man, 
Still  gentler  sister  woman, 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human' — 

the  doctrine  o'  Charity.  Gie  him  his  chance,  says 
Robbie,  though  he  be  a  sinner.  Mony  a  mon'd  be  differ', 
mony  bad'd   be  gude,  gin  they  had  but  their  chance. 


276 


FOR  THE  DEFENCE 


Gie  'em  their  chance,  says  he;  and  I'm  wi'  him.  As  'tis, 
ye  see  me  here — a  bad  man  wi'  a  streak  o'  good  in  him. 
Gin  I  'd  had  ma  chance,  aiblins  'twad  be — a  good  man  wi' 
just  a  spice  o'  the  devil  in  him.  A'  the  differ'  betune  what 
is  and  what  might  ha'  bin." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


THE   DEVIL  S    BOWL 

HE  sat  down.     In  the  great  hall  there  was  silence, 
save  for  a  tiny  sound  from  the  gallery  like  a  sob 
suppressed. 

The  squire  rose  hurriedly  and  left  the  room. 

After  him,  one  by  one,  trailed  the  tenants. 

At  length,  two  only  remained — M'Adam,  sitting  solitary 
with  a  long  array  of  empty  chairs  on  either  hand;  and, 
at  the  far  end  of  the  table,  Parson  Leggy,  stern,  upright, 
motionless. 

When  the  last  man  had  left^the  room  the  parson  rose 
and  with  lips  tight-set  strode  across  the  silent  hall. 

"M'Adam,"  he  said  rapidly  and  almost  roughly,  "I've 
listened  to  what  you've  said,  as  I  think  we  all  have,  with  a 
sore  heart.  You  hit  hard — but  I  think  you  were  right. 
And  if  I've  not  done  my  duty  by  you  as  I  ought — and 
I  fear  I  've  not — it 's  now  my  duty  as  God 's  minister  to  be 
the  first  to  say  I'm  sorry."  And  it  was  evident  from  his 
face  what  an  effort  the  words  cost  him. 

*77 


278  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

The  little  man  tilted  back  his  chair,  and  raised  his  head. 

It  was  the  old  M'Adam  who  looked  up.  The  thin  lips 
were  curled;  a  grin  was  crawling  across  the  mocking  face; 
and  he  wagged  his  head  gently,  as  he  looked  at  the 
speaker  through  the  slits  of  his  half-closed  eyes. 

"Mr.  Hornbut,  I  believe  ye  thocht  me  in  earnest,  'deed 
and  I  do!"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed 
softly.  ''Ye  swallered  it  all  down  like  best  butter. 
Dear,  dear!  to  think  o'  that!"  Then,  stretching  forward: 
"Mr.  Hornbut,  I  was  playin'  wi'  ye." 

The  parson's  face,  as  he  listened,  was  ugly  to  watch. 
He  shot  out  a  hand  and  grabbed  the  scoffer  b}^  his  coat; 
then  dropped  it  again  and  turned  abruptly  away. 

As  he  passed  through  the  door  a  little  sneering  voice 
called  after  him: 

"Mr.  Hornbut,  I  ask  ye  hoo  you,  a  minister  o'  the 
Church  of  England,  can  reconcile  it  to  yer  conscience  to 
think — though  it  be  but  for  a  minute — that  there  can  be 
ony  good  in  a  man  and  him  no  churchgoer?  Sir,  ye 're  a 
heretic — not  to  say  a  heathen!"  He  sniggered  to  himself, 
and  his  hand  crept  to  a  half-emptied  wine  decanter. 


An  hour  later,  James  Moore,  his  business  with  the 
squire  completed,  passed  through  the  hall  on  his  way  out. 
Its  only  occupant  was  now  M'Adam,  and  the  Master 
walked  straight  up  to  his  enemy. 

"M'Adam,"  he  said  gruffly,  holding  out  a  sinewy 
hand,  "I'd  like  to  say " 

The  little  man  knocked  aside  the  token  of  friendship. 

"Na,  na.  No  cant,  if  ye  please,  James  Moore.  That'll 
aiblins  go  doon  wi'  the  parsons,  but  not  wi'  me.     I  ken 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  279 

you  and  you  ken  me,  and  all  the  whitewash  i'  th'  warld  '11 
no  deceive  us." 

The  Master  turned  away,  and  his  face  was  hard  as  the 
nether  millstone.     But  the  little  man  pursued  him. 

"I  was  nigh  forgetting''  he  said.  "I've  a  surprise  for 
ye,  James  Moore.  But  I  hear  it  *s  yer  birthday  on  Sunday, 
and  I'll  keep  it  till  then — he!  he!" 

"Ye '11  see  me  before  Sunday,  M'Adam,"  the  other 
answered.  "On  Saturday,  as  I  told  yo',  I'm  comin'  to 
see  if  yo've  done  yer  duty." 

"Whether  ye  come,  James  Moore,  is  your  business. 
Whether  ye '11  iver  go,  once  there,  I'll  mak'  mine.  I've 
warned  ye  twice  noo" — and  the  little  man  laughed  that 
harsh,  cackling  laugh  of  his. 

At  the  door  of  the  hall  the  Master  met  David. 

"Noo  lad,  yo're  comin'  along  wi'  Andrew  and  me," 
he  said;  "Maggie '11  niver  forgie  us  if  we  dinna  bring  yo' 
home  wi'  us." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Moore,"  the  boy  replied. 
"I've  to  see  squire  first;  and  then  yo'  may  be  sure  I'll 
be  after  you." 

The  Master  faltered  a  moment. 

"David,  ha'n  yo'  spoke  to  yer  father  yet?"  he  asked  in 
low  voice.     "Yo'  should,  lad." 

The  boy  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"I  canna,"  he  said  petulantly. 

"I  would,  lad,"  the  other  advised.  "An  yo'  don't  yo* 
may  be  sorry  after." 

As  he  turned  away  he  heard  the  boy's  steps,  dull  and 
sodden,  as  he  crossed  the  hall;  and  then  a  thin,  would-be 
cordial  voice  in  the  emptiness : 

"I  declar'  if  'tisna  David!     The  return  o'  the  Prodeegal 


280  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

— he!  he!  So  ye've  seen  yer  auld  dad  at  last,  and  the 
last;  the  proper  place,  say  ye,  for  yer  father — he!  he! 
Eh,  lad,  but  I'm  blithe  to  see  ye.  D'ye  mind  when  we 
was  last  thegither?  Ye  was  kneelin'  on  ma  chest:  'Your 
time's  come,  dad,'  says  you,  and  wangs  me  o'er  the  face — 
he!  he!  I  mind  it  as  if 'twas  yesterday.  Weel,  weel,  we '11 
say  nae  mair  about  it.  Boys  will  be  boys.  Sons  will  be 
sons.  Accidents  will  happen.  And  if  at  first  ye  don't 
succeed,  why,  try,  try  again — he!  he!" 

Dusk  was  merging  into  darkness  when  the  Master  and 
Andrew  reached  the  Dalesman's  Daughter.  It  had  been 
long  dark  when  they  emerged  from  the  cosy  parlour  of  the 
inn  and  plunged  out  into  the  night. 

As  they  crossed  the  Silver  Lea  and  trudged  over  that 
familiar  ground,  where  a  fortnight  since  had  been  fought 
out  the  battle  of  the  Cup,  the  wind  fluttered  past  them  in 
spasmodic  gasps. 

"There's  trouble  in  the  wind,"  said  the  Master. 

"Ay,"  answered  his  laconic  son. 

All  day  there  had  been  no  breath  of  air,  and  the  sky 
dangerously  blue.  But  now  a  world  of  black  was  surging 
up  from  the  horizon,  smothering  the  star-lit  night;  and 
small  dark  clouds,  like  puffs  of  smoke,  detaching  themselves 
from  the  main  body,  were  driving  tempestuously  forward 
— the  vanguard  of  the  storm. 

In  the  distance  was  a  low  rumbling  like  heavy  tumbrils 
on  the  floor  of  heaven.  All  about,  the  wind  sounded 
hollow  like  a  mighty  scythe  on  corn.  The  air  was  op- 
pressed with  a  leaden  blackness — no  glimmer  of  light  on 
any  hand;  and  as  they  began  the  ascent  of  the  Pass  they 
reached  out  blind  hands  to  feel  along  the  rock-face. 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  281 

A  sea-fret,  cool  and  wetting,  fell.  A  few  big  rain-drops 
splashed  heavily  down.  The  wind  rose  with  a  leap  and 
roared  past  them  up  the  rocky  track.  And  the  water- 
gates  of  heaven  were  flung  wide. 

Wet  and  weary,  they  battled  on;  thinking  sometimes  of 
the  cosy  parlour  behind;  sometimes  of  the  home  in  front; 
wondering  whether  Maggie,  in  fiat  contradiction  of  her 
father's  orders,  would  be  up  to  welcome  them;  or  whether 
Owd  Bob  would  come  out  to  meet  them. 

The  wind  volleyed  past  them  like  salvoes  of  artillery. 
The  rain  stormed  at  them  from  above;  spat  at  them  from 
the  rock-face;  and  leapt  up  at  them  from  their  feet. 

Once  they  halted  for  a  moment,  finding  a  miserable 
shelter  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 

"It's  a  Black  Killer's  night,"  panted  the  Master. 
"Ireck'nhe'soot." 

"Ay,"  the  boy  gasped,  "reck'n  he  is." 

Up  and  up  they  climbed  through  the  blackness,  blind 
and  buffeted.  The  eternal  thunder  of  the  rain  was  all 
about  them;  the  clamour  of  the  gale  above;  and  far 
beneath,  the  roar  of  angry  waters. 

Once,  in  a  lull  in  the  storm,  the  Master  turned  and 
looked  back  into  the  blackness  along  the  path  they  had 
come. 

"Did  ye  hear  onythin'?"  he  roared  above  the  muffled 
soughing  of  the  wind. 

"Nay!"  Andrew  shouted  back. 

"I  thowt  I  heard  a  step!"  the  Master  cried,  peering 
down.     But  nothing  could  he  see. 

Then  the  wind  leaped  to  life  again  like  a  giant  from  his 
sleep,  drowning  all  sound  with  its  hurricane  voice;  and 
they  turned  and  bent  to  their  task  again. 


282  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

Nearing  the  summit,  the  Master  turned  once  more. 

"There  it  was  again!"  he  called;  but  his  words  were 
swept  away  on  the  storm;  and  they  buckled  to  the  struggle 
afresh. 

Ever  and  anon  the  moon  gleamed  down  through  the 
riot  of  tossing  sky.  Then  they  could  see  the  wet  wall 
above  them,  with  the  water  tumbling  down  its  sheer  face; 
and  far  below,  in  the  roaring  gutter  of  the  Pass  a  brown- 
stained  torrent.  Hardly,  however,  had  they  time  to 
glance  around  when  a  mass  of  cloud  would  hurry  jealously 
up,  and  all  again  was  blackness  and  noise. 

At  length,  nigh  spent,  they  topped  the  last  and  steepest 
pitch  of  the  Pass,  and  emerged  into  the  Devil's  Bowl. 
There,  overcome  with  their  exertions,  they  flung  them- 
selves on  to  the  soaking  ground  to  draw  breath. 

Behind  them,  the  wind  rushed  with  a  sullen  roar  up  the 
funnel  of  the  Pass.  It  screamed  above  them  as  though 
ten  million  devils  were  a-horse;  and  blurted  out  on  to  the 
wild  Marches  beyond. 

As  they  lay  there,  still  panting,  the  moon  gleamed 
down  in  momentary  graciousness.  In  front,  through  the 
lashing  rain,  they  could  discern  the  hillocks  that  squat, 
hag-like,  round  the  Devil's  Bowl;  and  lying  in  its  bosom, 
its  white  waters,  usually  so  still,  ploughed  now  into  a 
thousand  furrows,  the  Lone  Tarn. 

The  Master  raised  his  head  and  craned  forward  at  the 
ghostly  scene.  Of  a  sudden  he  reared  himself  on  to  his 
arms,  and  stayed  motionless  awhile.  Then  he  dropped  as 
though  dead,  forcing  down  Andrew  with  an  iron  hand. 

"Lad,  did'st  see?"  he  whispered. 

"Nay:  what  was't?"  the  boy  replied,  roused  by  his 
father's  tone. 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  283 

"There!" 

But  as  the  Master  pointed  forward,  a  blur  of  cloud 
intervened  and  all  was  dark.  Quickly  it  passed;  and 
again  the  lantern  of  the  night  shone  down.  And  Andrew, 
looking  with  all  his  eyes,  saw  indeed. 

There,  in  front,  by  the  fretting  waters  of  the  Tarn, 
packed  in  a  solid  phalanx,  with  every  head  turned  in  the 
same  direction,  was  a  flock  of  sheep.  The}'  were  motion- 
less, all-intent,  staring  with  horror-bulging  eyes.  A 
column  of  steam  rose  from  their  bodies  into  the  rain- 
pierced  air.  Panting  and  palpitating,  yet  they  stood  with 
their  backs  to  the  water,  as  though  determined  to  sell 
their  lives  dearly.  Beyond  them,  not  fifty  yards  away, 
crouched  a  hump-backed  boulder,  casting  a  long,  mis- 
shapen shadow  in  the  moonlight.  And  beneath  it  were 
two  black  objects,  one  struggling  feebly. 

"The  Killer!"  gasped  the  boy,  and,  all  ablaze  with 
excitement,  began  forging  forward. 

"Steady,  lad,  steady!"  urged  his  father,  dropping  a 
restraining  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

Above  them  a  huddle  of  clouds  flung  in  furious  rout 
across  the  night,  and  the  moon  was  veiled. 

"Follow,  lad!"  ordered  the  Master,  and  began  to  crawl 
silently  forward.  As  stealthily  Andrew  pursued.  And 
over  the  sodden  ground  they  crept,  one  behind  the  other, 
like  two  night-hawks  on  some  foul  errand. 

On  they  crawled,  lying  prone  during  the  blinks  of  moon, 
stealing  forward  in  the  dark;  till,  at  length,  the  swish  of 
the  rain  on  the  waters  of  the  Tarn,  and  the  sobbing  of  the 
flock  in  front,  warned  them  they  were  near. 

They  skirted  the  trembling  pack,  passing  so  close  as  to 
brush  against  the  flanking  sheep;  and  yet  unnoticed,  for 


284  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

the  sheep  were  soul-absorbed  in  the  tragedy  in  front. 
Only,  when  the  moon  was  in,  Andrew  could  hear  them 
huddling  and  stamping  in  the  darkness.  And  again,  as  it 
shone  out,  fearfully  they  edged  closer  to  watch  the  bloody 
play. 

Along  the  Tarn  edge  the  two  crept.  And  still  the 
gracious  moon  hid  their  approach,  and  the  drunken  wind 
drowned  with  its  revelry  the  sound  of  their  coming. 

Go  they  stole  on,  on  hands  and  knees,  with  hearts 
aghast  and  fluttering  breath;  until,  of  a  sudden,  in  a  lull 
of  wind,  they  could  hear,  right  before  them,  the  smack  and 
slobber  of  bloody  lips,  chewing  their  bloody  meal. 

"  Say  thy  prayers,  Red  Wull.  Thy  last  minute's  come  \" 
muttered  the  Master,  rising  to  his  knees.  Then,  in  An- 
drew's ear:  "When  I  rush,  lad,  follow!"  For  he  thought 
when  the  moon  rose,  to  jump  in  on  the  great  dog,  and, 
surprising  him  as  he  lay  gorged  and  unsuspicious,  to  deal 
him  one  terrible  swashing  blow,  and  end  forever  the  lawless 
doings  of  the  Tailless  Tyke. 

The  moon  flung  off  its  veil  of  cloud.  White  and  cold, 
it  stared  down  into  the  Devil's  Bowl;  on  murderer  and 
murdered. 

Within  a  hand's  cast  of  the  avengers  of  blood  humped 
the  black  boulder.  On  the  border  of  its  shadow  lay  a  dead 
sheep;  and  standing  beside  the  body,  his  coat  all  ruffled 
by  the  hand  of  the  storm— Owd  Bob — Owd  Bob  o' 
Senmuir. 

Then  the  light  went  in,  and  darkness  covered  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    DEVIL'S    BOWL 

IT  WAS  Owd  Bob.  There  could  be  no  mistaking.  In 
the  wide  world  there  was  but  one  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir. 
The  silver  moon  gleamed  down  on  the  dark  head  and 
rough  gray  coat,  and  lit  the  white  escutcheon  on  his  chest. 

And  in  the  darkness  James  Moore  was  lying  with  his 
face  pressed  downward  that  he  might  not  see. 

Once  he  raised  himself  on  his  arms;  his  eyes  were  shut 
and  face  uplifted,  like  a  blind  man  praying.  He  passed  a 
weary  hand  across  his  brow;  his  head  dropped  again; 
and  he  moaned  and  moaned  like  a  man  in  everlasting 
pain. 

Then  the  darkness  lifted  a  moment,  and  he  stole  a 
furtive  glance,  like  a  murderer's  at  the  gallows-tree,  at  the 
scene  in  front. 

It  was  no  dream;  clear  and  cruel  in  the  moonlight  the 
humpbacked  boulder;  the  dead  sheep;  and  that  gray 
figure,  beautiful,  motionless,  damned  for  all  eternity. 

285 


286  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

The  Master  turned  his  face  and  looked  at  Andrew,  a 
dumb,  pitiful  entreaty  in  his  eyes;  but  in  the  boy's  white, 
horror-stricken  countenance  was  no  comfort.  Then  his 
head  lolled  down  again,  and  the  strong  man  was  whimper- 
ing. 

"He!  he!  he!  'Scuse  ma  laffin',  Mr.  Moore— he!  he! 
he!" 

A  little  man,  all  wet  and  shrunk,  sat  hunching  on  a 
mound  above  them,  rocking  his  shrivelled  form  to  and  fro 
in  the  agony  of  his  merriment. 

"Yeraskil — he!  he!  Ye  rogue — he!  he!"  and  he  shook 
his  fist  waggishly  at  the  unconscious  gray  dog.  "I  owe 
ye  anither  grudge  for  this — ye've  anteecipated  me" — and 
he  leant  back  and  shook  this  way  and  that  in  convulsive 
mirth. 

The  man  below  him  rose  heavily  to  his  feet,  and  tumbled 
toward  the  mocker,  his  great  figure  swaying  from  side  to 
side  as  though  in  blind  delirium,  moaning  still  as  he  went. 
And  there  was  that  on  his  face  which  no  man  can  mistake. 
Boy  that  he  was,  Andrew  knew  it. 

"Feyther!  feyther!  do'ee    not!"  he    pleaded,    running 
after  his  father  and  laying  impotent  hands  on  him. 
■     But  the  strong  man  shook  him  off  like  a  fly,  and  rolled 
on,  swaying  and  groaning,  with  that  awful  expression  plain 
to  see  in  the  moonlight. 

In  front  the  little  man  squatted  in  the  rain,  bowed 
double  still;  and  took  no  thought  to  flee. 

"Come  on,  James  Moore!  Come  on!"  he  laughed, 
malignant  joy  in  his  voice,  and  something  gleamed  bright 
in  his  right  hand,  and  was  hid  again.  "I've  bin  waitin' 
this  a  weary  while  noo.     Come  on!" 

Then  had  there  been  done  something  worse  than  sheep- 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  287 

murder  in  the  dreadful  lonesomeness  of  the  Devil's  Bowl 
upon  that  night;  but  of  a  sudden,  there  sounded  the  splash 
of  a  man's  foot  falling  heavily  behind;  a  hand  like  a  falling 
tree  smote  the  Master  on  the  shoulder;  and  a  voice  roared 
above  the  noise  of  the  storm: 

"Mr.  Moore!     Look,  man!     Look! 

The  Master  tried  to  shake  off  that  detaining  grasp;  but 
it  pinned  him  where  he  was,  immovable. 

"Look,  I  tell  yo'!"  cried  that  great  voice  again. 

A  hand  pushed  past  him  and  pointed;  and  sullenly  he 
turned,  ignoring  the  figure  at  his  side,  and  looked. 

The  wind  had  dropped  suddenly  as  it  had  risen;  the 
little  man  on  the  mound  had  ceased  to  chuckle;  Andrew's 
sobs  were  hushed;  and  in  the  background  the  huddled 
flock  edged  closer.  The  world  hung  balanced  on  the 
pin-point  of  the  moment.  Every  eye  was  in  the  one 
direction. 

With  dull,  uncomprehending  gaze  James  Moore  stared 
as  bidden.  There  was  the  gray  dog  naked  in  the  moon- 
light, heedless  still  of  any  witnesses;  there  the  murdered 
sheep,  lying  within  and  without  that  distorted  shade  and 
there  the  humpbacked  boulder. 

He  stared  into  the  shadow,  and  still  stared.  Then  he 
started  as  though  struck.  The  shadow  of  the  boulder  had 
moved ! 

Motionless,  with  head  shot  forward  and  bulging  eyes,  he 
gazed. 

Ay,  ay,  ay;  he  was  sure  of  it — a  huge  dim  outline  as  of  a 
lion  couchant,  in  the  very  thickest  of  the  blackness. 

At  that  he  was  seized  with  such  a  palsy  of  trembling 
that  he  must  have  fallen  but  for  the  strong  arm  about  his 
waist. 


288  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

Clearer  every  moment  grew  that  crouching  figure;  till 
at  length  they  plainly  could  discern  the  line  of  arching 
loins,  the  crest,  thick  as  a  stallion's,  the  massive,  wagging 
head.  No  mistake  this  time.  There  he  lay  in  the  deepest 
black,  gigantic,  revelling  in  his  horrid  debauch — the  Black 
Killer! 

And  they  watched  him  at  his  feast.  Now  he  burrowed 
into  the  spongy  flesh;  now  turned  to  lap  the  dark  pool 
which  glittered  in  the  moonlight  at  his  side  like  claret  in  a 
silver  cup.  Now  lifting  his  head,  he  snapped  irritably  at 
the  rain-drops,  and  the  moon  caught  his  wicked,  rolling 
eye  and  the  red  shreds  of  flesh  dripping  from  his  jaw. 
And  again,  raising  his  great  muzzle  as  if  about  to  howl,  he 
let  the  delicious  nectar  trickle  down  his  throat  and  ravish 
his  palate. 

So  he  went  on,  all  unsuspicious,  wisely  nodding  in  slow- 
mouthed  gluttony.  And  in  the  stillness,  between  the 
claps  of  wind,  they  could  hear  the  smacking  of  his  lips. 

While  all  the  time  the  gray  dog  stood  before  him, 
motionless,  as  though  carved  in  stone. 

At  last,  as  the  murderer  rolled  his  great  head  from  side 
to  side,  he  saw  that  still  figure.  At  the  sight  he  leaped 
back,  dismayed.  Then  with  a  deep-mouthed  roar  that 
shook  the  waters  of  the  Tarn  he  was  up  and  across  his 
victim  with  fangs  bared,  his  coat  standing  erect  in  wet, 
rigid  furrows  from  topknot  to  tail. 

So  the  two  stood,  face  to  face,  with  perhaps  a  yard  of 
rain-pierced  air  between  them. 

The  wind  hushed  its  sighing  to  listen.  The  moon  stared 
down,  white  and  dumb.  Away  at  the  back  the  sheep 
edged  closer.  While  save  for  the  everlasting  thunder  of 
the,  rain,  there  was  utter  stillness. 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  289 

Ah  age,  it  seemed,  they  waited  so.  Then  a  voice,  clear 
yet  low  and  far  away,  like  a  bugle  in  a  distant  city,  broke 
the  silence. 

"Eh,  Wullie!"  it  said. 

There  was  no  anger  in  the  tones,  only  an  incomparable 
reproach;  the  sound  of  the  cracking  of  a  man's  heart. 

At  the  call  the  great  dog  leapt  round,  snarling  in 
hideous  passion.  He  saw  the  small,  familiar  figure,  clear- 
cut  against  the  tumbling  sky;  and  for  the  only  time  in  his 
life  Red  Wull  was  afraid. 

His  blood-foe  was  forgotten;  the  dead  sheep  was  for- 
gotten; everything  was  sunk  in  the  agony  of  that  moment. 
He  cowered  upon  the  ground,  and  a  cry  like  that  of  a  lost 
soul  was  wrung  from  him;  it  rose  on  the  still  night  air 
and  floated,  wailing,  away;  and  the  white  waters  of  the 
Tarn  thrilled  in  cold  pity;  out  of  the  lonely  hollow;  over 
the  desolate  Marches;  into  the  night. 

On  the  mound  above  stood  his  master.  The  little  man 's 
white  hair  was  bared  to  the  night  wind;  the  rain  trickled 
down  his  face;  and  his  hands  were  folded  behind  his  back. 
He  stood  there,  looking  down  into  the  dell  below  him,  as 
a  man  may  stand  at  the  tomb  of  his  lately  buried  wife. 
And  there  was  such  an  expression  on  his  face  as  I  cannot 
describe. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  cried  at  length;  and  his 
voice  sounded  weak  and  far,  like  a  distant  memory. 

At  that  the  huge  brute  came  crawling  toward  him  on  his 
belly,  whimpering  as  he  came,  very  pitiful  in  his  distress. 
He  knew  his  fate  as  every  sheep-dog  knows  it.  That 
troubled  him  not.  His  pain,  insufferable,  was  that  this, 
his  friend  and  father,  who  had  trusted  him,  should  have 
found  him  in  his  sin. 


29o  THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL 

So  he  crept  up  to  his  master's  feet;  and  the  little  man 
never  moved. 

"WulJie — ma  Wullie!"  he  said  very  gently.  "They've 
aye  bin  agin  me — and  noo  you!  A  man's  mither — a  man's 
wife — a  man's  dog!  they're  all  I've  iver  had;  and  noo 
ain  o'  they  three  has  turned  agin  me!    Indeed  I  am  alone!" 

At  that  the  great  dog  raised  himself,  and  placing  his 
forepaws  on  his  master's  chest  tenderly,  lest  he  should  hurt 
him  who  was  already  hurt  past  healing,  stood  towering 
above  him;  while  the  little  man  laid  his  two  cold  hands 
on  the  dog's  shoulders. 

So  they  stood,  looking  at  one  another,  like  a  man  ^nd 
his  love. 


At  M 'Adam's  word,  Owd  Bob  looked  up,  and  for  the 
first  time  saw  his  master. 

He  seemed  in  nowise  startled,  but  trotted  over  to  him. 
There  was  nothing  fearful  in  his  carriage,  no  haunting 
blood-guiltiness  in  the  true  gray  eyes  which  never  told  a  lie, 
which  never,  dog-like,  failed  to  look  you  in  the  face.  Yet 
his  tail  was  low,  and,  as  he  stopped  at  his  master's  feet,  he 
was  quivering.     For  he,  too,  knew,  and  was  not  unmoved. 

For  weeks  he  had  tracked  the  Killer;  for  weeks  he  had 
followed  him  as  he  crossed  Kenmuir,  bound  on  his  bloody 
errands;  yet  alwaj^s  had  lost  him  on  the  Marches.  Now, 
at  last,  he  had  run  him  to  ground.  Yet  his  heart  went 
out  to  his  enemy  in  his  distress. 

"I  thowt  't  had  been  yo',  lad,"  the  Master  whispered, 
his  hand  on  the  dark  head  at  his  knee — "I  thowt  't  had 
binyo'!" 


THE  DEVIL'S  BOWL  291 

Rooted  to  the  ground,  the  three  watched  the  scene  be- 
tween M'Adam  and  his  Wull. 

In  the  end  the  Master  was  whimpering;  Andrew  crying; 
and  David  turned  his  back. 

At  length,  silent,  they  moved  away. 

"Had  I — should  I  go  to  him?"  asked  David  hoarsely, 
nodding  toward  his  father. 

"Nay,  nay,  lad,"  the  Master  replied.  "Yon's  not  a 
matter  for  a  mon's  friends." 

So  they  marched  out  of  the  Devil 's  Bowl,  and  left  those 
two  alone  together. 

A  little  later,  as  they  trampled  along,  James  Moore 
heard  little  pattering,  staggering  footsteps  behind. 

He  stopped,  and  the  other  two  went  on. 

"Man,"  a  voice  whispered,  and  a  face,  white  and  piti- 
ful, like  a  mother's  pleading  for  her  child,  looked  into 
his — "Man,  ye '11  no  tell  them  a'  ?  I  'd  no  like  'em  to  ken 
'twas  ma  Wullie.     Think  an   t  had  bin  yer  ain  dog." 

"You  may  trust  me!"  the  other  answered  thickly. 

The  little  man  stretched  out  a  palsied  hand. 

"Gie  us  yer  hand  on't.  And  G-God  bless  ye,  James 
Moore!" 

So  these  two  shook  hands  in  the  moonlight,  with  none 
to  witness  it  but  the  God  who  made  them. 

And  that  is  why  the  mystery  of  the  Black  Killer  is  yet 
unsolved  in  the  Daleland.  Many  have  surmised;  besides 
those  three  only  one  other  knows — knows  now  which  of 
those  two  he  saw  upon  a  summer  night  was  the  guilty, 
which  the  innocent.     And  Postie  Jim  tells  no  man. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


THE   TAILLESS   TYKE    AT   BAY 


ON  THE  following  morning  there  was  a  sheep- 
auction  at  the  Dalesman's  Daughter. 

Early  as  many  of  the  farmers  arrived,  there  was  one 
earlier.  Tupper,  the  first  man  to  enter  the  sand-floored 
parlour,  found  M  'Adam  before  him. 

He  was  sitting  a  little  forward  in  his  chair;  his  thin 
hands  rested  on  his  knees;  and  on  his  face  was  a  gentle, 
dreamy  expression  such  as  no  man  had  ever  seen  there 
before.  All  the  harsh  wrinkles  seemed  to  have  fled  in  the 
night;  and  the  sour  face,  stamped  deep  with  the  bitterness 
of  life,  was  softened  now,  as  if  at  length  at  peace. 

"When  I  coom  doon  this  mornin',''  said  Teddy  Bol- 
stock  in  a  whisper.  "I  found  'im  just  sittin'  so.  And 
he's  nor  moved  nor  spoke  since." 

"Where's  th'  Terror,  then?"  asked  Tupper,  awed 
somehow  into  like  hushed  tones. 

"In  t'  paddock  at  back,"  Teddy  answered,  "marchin' 

292 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  293 

hoop  and  doon,  hoop  and  doon,  for  a'  the  world  like  a 
sentry-soger.  And  so  he  was  when  I  looked  oot  o' 
window  when  I  wake." 

Then  Londesley  entered,  and  after  him,  Ned  Hoppin, 
Rob  Saunderson,  Jim  Mason,  and  others,  each  with  his 
dog.  And  each  man,  as  he  came  in  and  saw  the  little  lone 
figure  for  once  without  its  huge  attendant  genius,  put  the 
same  question;  while  the  dogs  sniffed  about  the  little  man, 
as  though  suspecting  treachery.  And  all  the  time  M' 
Adam  sat  as  though  he  neither  heard  nor  saw,  lost  in  some 
sweet,  sad  dream;  so  quiet,  so  silent,  that  more  than  one 
thought  he  slept. 

After  the  first  glance,  however,  the  farmers  paid  him 
little  heed,  clustering  round  the  publican  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room  to  hear  the  latest  story  of  Owd  Bob. 

It  appeared  that  a  week  previously,  James  Moore  with 
a  pack  of  sheep  had  met  the  new  Grammoch-town  butcher 
at  the  Dalesman's  Daughter.  A  bargain  concluded,  the 
butcher  started  with  the  flock  for  home.  As  he  had  no 
dog,  the  Master  offered  him  Th'  Owd  Un.  "And  he'll 
pick  me  i'  th'  town  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

Now  the  butcher  was  a  stranger  in  the  land.  Of  course 
he  had  heard  of  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  yet  it  never  struck 
him  that  this  handsome  gentleman  with  the  quiet,  resolute 
manner,  who  handled  sheep  as  he  had  never  seen  them 
handled,  was  that  hero — "the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North." 

Certain  it  is  that  by  the  time  the  flock  was  penned  in  the 
enclosure  behind  the  shop,  he  coveted  the  dog — ay,  would 
even  offer  ten  pounds  for  him! 

Forthwith  the  butcher  locked  him  up  in  an  outhouse — 
summit  of  indignity;  resolving  to  make  his  offer  on  the 
morrow. 


294  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

When  the  morrow  came  he  found  no  dog  in  the  outhouse, 
and,  worse,  no  sheep  in  the  enclosure.  A  sprung  board 
showed  the  way  of  escape  of  the  one,  and  a  displaced 
hurdle  that  of  the  other.  And  as  he  was  making  the 
discovery,  a  gray  dog  and  a  flock  of  sheep,  travelling  along 
the  road  toward  the  Dalesman's  Daughter,  met  the 
Master. 

From  the  first,  Owd  Bob  had  mistrusted  the  man. 
The  attempt  to  confine  him  set  the  seal  on  his  suspicions. 
His  master's  sheep  were  not  for  such  a  rogue;  and  he 
worked  his  own  way  out  and  took  the  sheep  along  with 
him. 

The  story  was  told  to  a  running  chorus  of — "Ma  word! 
Good,  Owd  Un!— Ho!  ho!  did  he  thot?" 

Of  them  all,  only  M'Adam  sat  strangely  silent. 

Rob  Saunderson,  always  glad  to  draw  the  little  man, 
remarked  it. 

"And  what  d'yo'  think  o'  that,  Mr.  M'Adam,  for  a 
wunnerfu'  story  of  a  wunnerfu'  tyke?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  gude  tale,  a  vera  gude  tale,"  the  little  man  an- 
swered dreamily.  "And  James  Moore  didna  invent  it; 
he  had  it  from  the  Christmas  number  o'  the  Flock-keeper 
in  saxty."  (On  the  fol  owing  Sunday,  old  Rob,  from 
sheer  curiosity  reached  down  from  his  shelf  the  specified 
number  of  the  paper.  To  his  amazement  he  found  the 
little  man  was  right.  There  was  the  story  almost  iden- 
tically. None  the  less  is  it  also  true  of  Owd  Bob  o'  Ken- 
muir.) 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  little  man  continued,  "and  in  a  day  or 
two  James  Moore '11  ha'  anither  tale  to  tell  ye — a  better 
tale,  ye '11  think  it — mair  lafFable.  And  yet — ay — no — 
I  '11  no  believe  it !     I  niver  loved  James  Moore,  but  I  think, 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  295 

as  Mr.  Hornbut  aince  said,  he'd  rather  die  than  lie.  Owd 
Bob  o'  Kenmuir!"  he  continued  in  a  whisper.  "Up  till 
the  end  I  canna  shake  him  aff.  Hafflins  I  think  that 
where  I'm  gaein'  to  there'll  be  gray  dogs  sneakin'  around 
me  in  the  twilight.  And  they're  aye  behind  and  behind, 
and  I  canna,  canna " 

Teddy  Bolstock  interrupted,  lifting  his  hand  for 
silence. 

"D'yo'  hear  thot?— Thunder!" 

They   listened;  and    from   without    came    a    gurgling, 
jarring  roar,  horrible  to  hear. 
It  s  comin    nearer! 

"Nay,  it's  goin'  away!" 

"No  thunder  thot!" 

"More  like  the  Lea  in  flood.  And  yet — Eh,  Mr^ 
M'Adam,  what  is  it?" 

The  little  man  had  moved  at  last.  He  was  on  his  feet, 
staring  about  him,  wild-eyed. 

"Where's  yer  dogs?"  he  almost  screamed. 

"Here's  ma Nay,  by  thunder!  but  he's  not!"  was 

the  astonished  cry. 

In  the  interest  of  the  story  no  man  had  noticed  that  his 
dog  had  risen  from  his  side;  no  one  had  noticed  a  file  of 
shaggy  figures  creeping  out  of  the  room. 

"I  tell  ye  it's  the  tykes!  I  tell  ye  it's  the  tykes! 
They're  on  ma  Wullie — fifty  to  one  they're  on  him! 
My  God!  My  God!  And  me  not  there!  Wullie,  Wullie ! " 
— in  a  scream — "I'm  wi'  ye!" 

At  the  same  moment  Bessie  Bolstock  rushed  in,  white- 
faced. 

"Hi!  Feyther!  Mr.  Saunderson!  all  o'  you!  T'  tykes 
fightin'mad!     Hark!" 


296  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

There  was  no  time  for  that.  Each  man  seized  his  stick 
and  rushed  for  the  door;  and  M'Adam  led  them  all. 

A  rare  thing  it  was  for  M'Adam  and  Red  Wull  to  be 
apart.  So  rare,  that  others  besides  the  men  in  that  little 
tap-room  noticed  it. 

Saunderson's  old  Shep  walked  quietly  to  the  back  door 
of  the  house  and  looked  out. 

There  on  the  slope  below  him  he  saw  what  he  sought, 
stalking  up  and  down,  gaunt  and  grim,  like  a  lion  at 
feeding-time.  And  as  the  old  dog  watched,  his  tail  was 
gently  swaying  as  though  he  were  well  pleased. 

He  walked  back  into  the  tap-room  just  as  Teddy  began 
his  tale.  Twice  he  made  the  round  of  the  room,  silent- 
footed.  From  dog  to  dog  he  went,  stopping  at  each  as 
though  urging  him  on  to  some  great  enterprise.  Then 
he  made  for  the  door  again,  looking  back  to  see  if  any 
followed . 

One  by  one  the  others  rose  and  trailed  out  after  him: 
big  blue  Rasper,  Londesley's  Lassie,  Ned  Hoppin's 
young  dog;  Grip  and  Grapple,  the  publican's  bull- 
terriers;  Jim  Mason's  Gyp,  foolish  and  flirting  even  now; 
others  there  were;  and  last  of  all,  waddling  heavily  in  the 
rear,  that  scarred  Amazon,  the  Venus. 

Out  of  the  house  they  pattered,  silent  and  unseen,  with 
murder  in  their  hearts.  At  last  they  had  found  their 
enemy  alone.  And  slowly,  in  a  black  cloud,  like  the 
shadow  of  death,  they  dropped  down  the  slope  upon  him. 

And  he  saw  them  coming,  knew  their  errand — as  who 
should  better  than  the  Terror  of  the  Border? — and  was 
glad.  Death  it  might  be,  and  such  an  one  as  he  would 
wish  to  die — at  least  distraction  from  that  long-drawn, 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  297 

haunting  pain.  And  he  smiled  grimly  as  he  looked  at  the 
approaching  crowd,  and  saw  there  was  not  one  there  but 
he  had  humbled  in  his  time. 

He  ceased  his  restless  pacing,  and  awaited  them.  His 
great  head  was  high  as  he  scanned  them  contemptuously, 
daring  them  to  come  on. 

And  on  they  came,  marching  slow  and  silent  like 
soldiers  at  a  funeral :  young  and  old;  bob-tailed  and  bull; 
terrier  and  collie;  flocking  like  vultures  to  the  dead. 
And  the  Venus,  heavy  with  years,  rolled  after  them  on  her 
bandy  legs  panting  in  her  hurry  lest  she  should  be  late. 
For  had  she  not  the  blood  of  her  blood  to  avenge? 

So  they  came  about  him,  slow,  certain,  murderous, 
opening  out  to  cut  him  off  on  every  side.  There  was  no 
need.  He  never  thought  to  move.  Long  odds  'twould 
be — crushingly  heavy;  yet  he  loved  them  for  it,  and  was 
trembling  already  with  the  glory  of  the  coming  fight. 

They  were  up  to  him  now;  the  sheep-dogs  walking 
round  him  on  their  toes,  stiff  and  short  like  cats  on  coals; 
their  backs  a  little  humped;  heads  averted;  yet  eying 
him  askance. 

And  he  remained  stock-still  nor  looked  at  them.  His 
great  chin  was  cocked,  and  his  muzzle  wrinkled  in  a 
dreadful  grin.  As  he  stood  there,  shivering  a  little,  his 
eyes  rolling  back,  his  breath  grating  in  his  throat  to  set 
every  bristle  on  end,  he  looked  a  devil  indeed. 

The  Venus  ranged  alongside  him.  No  preliminary 
stage  for  her;  she  never  walked  where  she  could  stand,  or 
stood  where  she  could  lie.  But  stand  she  must  now, 
breathing  hard  through  her  nose,  never  taking  her  eyes 
off  that  pad  she  had  marked  for  her  own.  Close  beside 
her  were  crop-eared  Grip  and  Grapple,  looking  up  at  the 


298  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

line  above  them  where  hairy  neck  and  shoulder  joined. 
Behind  was  big  Rasper,  and  close  to  him  Lassie.  Of  the 
others,  each  had  marked  his  place,  each  taken  up  his 
post. 

Last  of  all,  old  Shep  took  his  stand  full  in  front  of  his 
enemy,  their  shoulders  almost  rubbing,  head  past  head. 

So  the  two  stood  a  moment,  as  though  they  were  whis- 
pering; each  diabolical,  each  rolling  back  his  eyes  to 
watch  the  other.  While  from  the  little  mob  there  rose  a 
snarling,  bubbling  snore,  like  some  giant  wheezing  in  his 
sleep. 

Then  like  lightning  each  struck.  Rearing  high,  they 
wrestled  with  striving  paws  and  the  expression  of  fiends 
incarnate.  Down  they  went,  Shep  underneath,  and  the 
great  dog  with  a  dozen  of  these  wolves  of  hell  upon  him. 
Rasper,  devilish,  was  riding  on  his  back;  the  Venus — 
well  for  him! — had  struck  and  missed;  but  Grip  and  Grap- 
ple had  their  hold;  and  the  others,  like  leaping  demoniacs, 
were  plunging  into  the  whirlpool  vortex  of  the  fight. 

And  there,  where  a  fortnight  before  he  had  fought  and 
lost  the  battle  of  the  Cup,  Red  Wull  now  battled  for  his 
life. 

Long  odds!  But  what  cared  he?  The  long-drawn 
agony  of  the  night  was  drowned  in  that  glorious  delirium. 
The  hate  of  years  came  bubbling  forth.  In  that  supreme 
moment  he  would  avenge  his  wrongs.  And  he  went  in  to 
fight,  revelling  like  a  giant  in  the  red  lust  of  killing. 

Long  odds!  Never  before  had  he  faced  such  a  galaxy 
of  foes.  His  one  chance  lay  in  quickness:  to  prevent  the 
swarming  crew  getting  their  hold  till  at  least  he  had  dim- 
inished their  numbers. 

Then  it  was  a  sight  to  see  the  great  brute,  huge  as  a 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  299 

bull-calf,  strong  as  a  bull,  rolling  over  and  over  and  up 
again,  quick  as  a  kitten;  leaping  here,  striking  there; 
shaking  himself  free;  swinging  his  quarters;  fighting  with 
feet  and  body  and  teeth — every  inch  of  him  at  war. 
More  than  once  he  broke  right  through  the  mob;  only  to 
turn  again  and  face  it.  No  flight  for  him;  nor  thought  of 
it. 

Up  and  down  the  slope  the  dark  mass  tossed,  like  some 
hulk  the  sport  of  the  waves.  Black  and  white,  sable  and 
gray,  worrying  at  that  great  centrepiece.  Up  and  down, 
roaming  wide,  leaving  everywhere  a  trail  of  red. 

Gyp  he  had  pinned  and  hurled  over  his  shoulder.  Grip 
followed;  he  shook  her  till  she  rattled,  then  flung  her  afar; 
and  she  fell  with  a  horrid  thud,  not  to  rise.  While 
Grapple,  the  death  to  avenge,  hung  tighter.  In  a  scarlet, 
soaking  patch  of  the  ground  lay  Big  Bell's  lurcher, 
doubled  up  in  a  dreadful  ball.  And  Hoppin's  young  dog, 
who  three  hours  before  had  been  the  children's  tender 
playmate,  now  fiendish  to  look  on,  dragged  after  the 
huddle  up  the  hill.  Back  the  mob  rolled  on  her.  When  it 
was  passed,  she  lay  quite  still,  grinning;  a  handful  of 
tawny  hair  and  flesh  in  her  dead  mouth. 

So  they  fought  on.  And  ever  and  anon  a  great  figure 
rose  up  from  the  heaving  inferno  all  around;  rearing  to 
his  full  height,  his  head  ragged  and  bleeding,  the  red  foam 
dripping  from  his  jaws.  Thus  he  would  appear  momen- 
tarily, like  some  dark  rock  amid  a  raging  sea;  and  down 
he  would  go  again. 

Silent  now  they  fought,  dumb  and  determined.  Only 
you  might  have  heard  the  rend  and  rip  of  tearing  flesh; 
a  hoarse  gurgle  as  some  dog  went  down;  the  panting  of 
dry  throats;  and  now  and  then  a  sob  from  that  central 


300  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

figure.  For  he  was  fighting  for  his  life.  The  Terror  of  the 
Border  was  at  bay. 

All  who  meant  it  were  on  him  now.  The  Venus,  blinded 
with  blood,  had  her  hold  at  last;  and  never  but  once  in  a 
long  life  of  battles  had  she  let  go;  Rasper,  his  breath 
coming  in  rattles,  had  him  horribly  by  the  loins;  while  a 
dozen  other  devils  with  red  eyes  and  wrinkled  nostrils 
clung  still. 

Long  odds!  And  down  he  went,  smothered  beneath 
the  weight  of  numbers,  yet  struggled  up  again.  His 
great  head  was  torn  and  dripping;  his  eyes  a  gleam  of 
rolling  red  and  white;  the  little  tail  stern  and  stiff  like 
the  gallant  stump  of  a  flagstaff  shot  away.  He  was 
desperate,  but  indomitable;  and  he  sobbed  as  he  fought 
doggedly  on. 

Long  odds!  It  could  not  last.  And  down  he  went  at 
length,  silent  still — never  a  cry  should  they  wring  from 
him  in  his  agony;  the  Venus  glued  to  that  mangled  pad; 
Rasper  beneath  him  now;  three  at  his  throat;  two  at  his 
ears;  a  crowd  on  flanks  and  body. 

The  Terror  of  the  Border  was  down  at  last! 

"Wullie,  ma  Wullie!"  screamed  M'Adam,  bounding 
down  the  slope  a  crook's  length  in  front  of  the  rest. 
"Wullie!  Wullie!  tome!" 

At  the  shrill  cry  the  huddle  below  was  convulsed.  It 
heaved  and  swelled  and  dragged  to  and  fro,  like  the  sea 
lashed  into  life  by  some  dying  leviathan. 

A  gigantic  figure,  tawny  and  red,  fought  its  way  to  the 
surface.  A  great  tossing  head,  bloody  past  recognition, 
flung  out  from  the  ruck.  One  quick  glance  he  shot  from 
his  ragged  eyes  at  the  little  flying  form  in  front;  then  with 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  301 

a  roar  like  a  waterfall  plunged  toward  it,  shaking  off  the 
bloody  leeches  as  he  went. 

"Wullie!  Wullie!  I'mwi'ye!"  cried  that  little  voice, 
now  so  near. 

Through — through — through! — an  incomparable  effort 
and  his  last.  They  hung  to  his  throat,  they  clung  to  his 
muzzle,  they  were  round  and  about  him.  And  down  he 
went  again  with  a  sob  and  a  little  suffocating  cry,  shooting 
up  at  his  master  one  quick,  beseeching  glance  as  the  sea  of 
blood  closed  over  him — worrying,  smothering,  tearing,  like 
fox-hounds  at  the  kill. 

They  left  the  dead  and  pulled  away  the  living.  And 
it  was  no  light  task,  for  the  pack  were  mad  for  blood. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  wet  mess  of  hair  and  red  and  flesh 
was  old  Shep,  stone-dead.  And  as  Saunderson  pulled  the 
body  out,  his  face  was  working;  for  no  man  can  lose  in  a 
crack  the  friend  of  a  dozen  years,  and  remain  unmoved. 

The  Venus  lay  there,  her  teeth  clenched  still  in  death; 
smiling  that  her  vengeance  was  achieved.  Big  Rasper, 
blue  no  longer,  was  gasping  out  his  life.  Two  more  came 
crawling  out  to  find  a  quiet  spot  where  they  might  lay 
them  down  to  die.  Before  the  night  had  fallen  another 
had  gone  to  his  account.  While  not  a  dog  who  fought 
upon  that  day  but  carried  the  scars  of  it  with  him  to  his 
grave. 

The  Terror  o'  th'  Border,  terrible  in  his  life,  like  Sam- 
son, was  yet  more  terrible  in  his  dying. 

Down  at  the  bottom  lay  that  which  once  had  been 
Adam  M 'Adam's  Red  Wull. 

At  the  sight  the  little  man  neither  raved  nor  swore: 
it  was  past  that  for  him.     He  sat  down,  heedless  of  the 


3o2  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

soaking  ground,  and  took  the  mangled  head  in  his  lap  very 
tenderly. 

"They've  done  ye  at  last,  Wullie — they've  done  ye  at 
last,"  he  said  quietly;  unalterably  convinced  that  the 
attack  had  been  organized  while  he  was  detained  in  the 
tap-room. 

On  hearing  the  loved  little  voice,  the  dog  gave  one  weary 
wag  of  his  stump-tail.  And  with  that  the  Tailless  Tyke, 
Adam  M 'Adam's  Red  Wull,  the  Black  Killer,  went  to 
his  long  home. 

One  by  one  the  Dalesmen  took  away  their  dead,  and  the 
little  man  was  left  alone  with  the  body  of  his  last  friend. 

Dry-eyed  he  sat  there,  nursing  the  dead  dog's  head; 
hour  after  hour — alone — crooning  to  himself: 

"'Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought! 
An'  mony  an  anxious  day  I  thought 
We  wad  be  beat.' 

An'  noo  we  are,  Wullie — noo  we  are!" 

So  he  went  on,  repeating  the  lines  over  and  over  again, 
always  with  the  same  sad  termination. 

"A  man's  mither — a  man's  wife — a  man's  dog!  They 
three  are  a'  little  M 'Adam  iver  had  to  back  him!  D'ye 
mind  the  auld  mither,  Wullie?  And  her,  'Niver  be  down- 
hearted, Adam;  ye've  aye  got  yer  mither.'  And  ae  day 
I  had  not.  And  Flora,  Wullie  (ye  remember  Flora, 
Wullie?  Na,  na;  ye'd  not)  wi'  her  lafnn'  dafrm'  manner, 
cryin'  to  one:  'Adam,  ye  say  ye 're  alane.  But  ye've 
me — is  that  no  enough  for  ony  man?'  And  God  kens  it 
was — while  it  lasted!"  He  broke  down  and  soLbed  a 
while.     "And  you,  Wullie — and  you!  the  only  man  friend 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  303 

iver  I  had!"     He  sought  the  dog's  bloody  paw  with  his 
right  hand. 

"'An'  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

An  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
An'  we'll  tak'  a  right  guid  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. ' " 

He  sat  there,  muttering,  and  stroking  the  poor  head 
upon  his  lap,  bending  over  it,  like  a  mother  over  a  sick 
child. 

"They've  done  ye  at  last,  lad — done  ye  sair.  And  noo 
I'm  thinkin'  they'll  no  rest  content  till  I'm  gone.  And 
oh,  Wullie!" — he  bent  down  and  whispered — "I  dreamed 
sic  an  awfu'  thing — that  ma  Wullie — but  there!  'twas  but 
a  dream." 

So  he  sat  on,  crooning  to  the  dead  dog;  and  no  man 
approached  him.  Only  Bessie  of  the  inn  watched  the 
little  lone  figure  from  afar. 

It  was  long  past  noon  when  at  length  he  rose,  laying  the 
dog's  head  reverently  down,  and  tottered  away  toward 
that  bridge  which  once  the  dead  thing  on  the  slope  had 
held  against  a  thousand. 

He  crossed  it  and  turned;  there  was  a  look  upon  his 
face,  half  hopeful,  half  fearful,  very  piteous  to  see. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,  to  me!"  he  cried;  only  the  accents, 
formerly  so  fiery,  were  now  weak  as  a  dying  man's. 

A  while  he  waited  in  vain. 

"Are  ye  no  comin',  Wullie?"  he  asked  at  length  in 
quavering  tones.     "  Ye've  not  used  to  leave  me." 

He  walked  away  a  pace,  then  turned  again  and  whistled 
that  shrill,  sharp  call,  only  now  it  sounded  like  a  broken 
echo  of  itself. 

''Come  to  me,  Wullie!"  he  implored,  very  pitifully. 


3o4  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

"  'Tis  the  first  time  iver  I  kent  ye  not  come  and  me 
whistlin'.     What  ails  ye,  lad?" 

He  recrossed  the  bridge,  walking  blindly  like  a  sobbing 
child;  and  yet  dry-eyed. 

Over  the  dead  body  he  stooped. 

"What  ails  ye,  Wullie?"  he  asked  again.  "Will  you, 
too,  leave  me?" 

Then  Bessie,  watching  fearfully,  saw  him  bend,  sling  the 
great  body  on  his  back,  and  stagger  away. 

Limp  and  hideous,  the  carcase  hung  down  from  the  little 
man's  shoulders.  The  huge  head,  with  grim,  wide  eyes 
and  lolling  tongue,  jolted  and  swagged  with  the  motion, 
seeming  to  grin  a  ghastly  defiance  at  the  world  it  had  left. 
And  the  last  Bessie  saw  of  them  was  that  bloody,  rolling 
head  with  the  puny  legs  staggering  beneath  their  load,  as 
the  two  passed  out  of  the  world's  ken. 

In  the  Devil's  Bowl,  next  day,  they  found  the  pair: 
Adam  M'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull,  face  to  face;  dead,  not 
divided;  each,  save  for  the  other,  alone.  The  dog,  his 
saturnine  expression  glazed  and  ghastly  in  the  fixedness 
of  death,  propped  up  against  that  humpbacked  boulder 
beneath  which,  a  while  before,  the  Black  Killer  had  dreed 
his  weird;  and,  close  by,  his  master  lying  on  his  back,  his 
dim  dead  eyes  staring  up  at  the  heaven,  one  hand  still 
clasping  a  crumpled  photograph;  the  weary  body  at 
rest  at  last,  the  mocking  face — mocking  no  longer — alight 
with  a  whole-souled,  transfiguring  happiness. 

POSTSCRIPT 

Adam  M  'Adam  and  his  Red  Wull  lie  buried  together  one 
just  within,  the  other  just  without,  the  consecrated  pale. 


THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY  305 

The  only  mourners  at  the  funeral  were  David,  James 
Moore,  Maggie,  and  a  gray  dog  peering  through  the  lych- 
gate. 

During  the  service  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  churchyard, 
and  a  lady  with  a  stately  figure  and  a  gentle  face  stepped 
out  and  came  across  the  grass  to  pay  a  last  tribute  to  the 
dead.  And  Lady  Eleanour,  as  she  joined  the  little  group 
about  the  grave,  seemed  to  notice  a  more  than  usual 
solemnity  in  the  parson's  voice  as  he  intoned:  "Earth  to 
earth — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust;  in  sure  and  certain 
hope  of  the  Resurrection  to  eternal  life." 

When  you  wander  in  the  gray  hill-country  of  the  North, 
in  the  loneliest  corner  of  that  lonely  land  you  may  chance 
upon  a  low  farm-house,  lying  in  the  shadow  of  the  Muir 
Pike. 

Entering,  a  tall  old  man  comes  out  to  greet  you — the 
Master  of  Kenmuir.  His  shoulders  are  bent  now;  the 
hair  that  was  so  dark  is  frosted;  but  the  gray-blue  eyes 
look  you  as  proudly  in  the  face  as  of  yore. 

And  while  the  girl  with  the  glory  of  yellow  hair  is 
preparing  food  for  you — they  are  hospitable  to  a  fault, 
these  Northerners — you  will  notice  on  the  mantelpiece, 
standing  solitary,  a  massive  silver  cup,  dented. 

That  is  the  world-known  Shepherds'  Trophy,  won  out- 
right, as  the  old  man  will  tell  you,  by  Owd  Bob,  last 
and  best  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir.  The  last  because 
he  is  the  best;  because  once,  for  a  long-drawn  unit  of  time, 
James  Moore  had  thought  him  to  be  the  worst. 

When  at  length  you  take  your  leave,  the  old  man 
accompanies  you  to  the  top  of  the  slope  to  point  you  your 
way. 


6o6  THE  TAILLESS  TYKE  AT  BAY 

"Yo'  cross  the  stream;  over  Langholm  How,  yonder; 
past  the  Bottom;  and  oop  th' hill  on  far  side.  Yo '11  come 
on  th'  house  o'  top.  And  happen  yo'll  meet  Th'  Owd  Un 
on  the  road.     Good-day  to  you,  sir,  good-day." 

So  you  go  as  he  has  bidden  you;  across  the  stream, 
skirting  the  How,  over  the  gulf  and  up  the  hill  again. 

On  the  way,  as  the  Master  has  foretold,  you  come  upon 
an  old  gray  dog,  trotting  soberly  along.  Th'  Owd  Un, 
indeed,  seems  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  life  going  thus 
between  Kenmuir  and  the  Grange.  The  black  muzzle  is 
almost  white  now;  the  gait,  formerly  so  smooth  and 
strong,  is  stiff  and  slow;  venerable,  indeed,  is  he  of  whom 
men  still  talk  as  the  best  sheep-dog  in  the  North. 

As  he  passes,  he  pauses  to  scan  you.  The  noble  head  is 
high,  and  one  foot  raised;  and  you  look  into  two  big  gray 
eyes  such  as  you  have  never  seen  before — soft,  a  little  dim, 
and  infinitely  sad. 

That  is  Owd  Bob  o'  Kenmuir,  of  whom  the  tales  are 
many  as  the  flowers  on  the  May.  With  him  dies  the  last 
of  the  immortal  line  of  the  Gray  Dogs  of  Kenmuir. 

You  travel  on  up  the  hill,  something  pensive,  and 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  house  on  the  top. 

A  woman,  comely  with  the  inevitable  comeliness  of 
motherhood,  opens  to  you.  And  nestling  in  her  arms  is  a 
little  boy  with  golden  hair  and  happy  face,  like  one  of 
Correggio's  cherubs. 

You  ask  the  child  his  name.  He  kicks  and  crows,  and 
looks  up  at  his  mother;  and  in  the  end  lisps  roguishly,  as 
if  it  was  the  merriest  joke  in  all  this  merry  world,  "Adum 
Mataddum." 

THE    END 


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